Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence: On Suffering and Wielding the Sword 9780197566596, 9780197566626, 9780197566619, 0197566596

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Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence

Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence On Suffering and Wielding the Sword M AT T H EW D. LU N D B E R G

1

3 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Lundberg, Matthew D., author. Title: Christian martyrdom and Christian violence : on suffering and wielding the sword / Matthew D. Lundberg. Description: New York, NY, United States of America : Oxford University Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021003876 (print) | LCCN 2021003877 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197566596 (hb) | ISBN 9780197566626 (online) | ISBN 9780197566619 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Martyrdom—Christianity. | Suffering—Religious aspects—Christianity. | Violence—Religious aspects—Christianity. Classification: LCC BR1601.3 .L86 2021 (print) | LCC BR1601.3 (ebook) | DDC 272—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003876 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003877 DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.001.0001 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

This book is dedicated to the memory of Robert Lundberg and in honor of David Lundberg, two disciples of Christ who took different paths of witness in the face of war

Contents Preface  Acknowledgments 

Introduction: Naming the Christian Martyrs  1. Identifying Martyrdom 

The Origins of “Martyrdom”  Action and Passion in Christian Martyrdom  Violent Action and Martyrdom?  The Question of Violence in the Christian Life and the Criteria of Martyrdom (I) 

ix xi

1 7

8 10 15 19

2. Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom? 

22

3. The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom 

46

4. Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs 

68

5. Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning 

96

The Biblical Case for Pacifism  Christian Pacifism in History  Martyrdom in Anabaptist Perspective  Nonviolence and the Imitatio Christi  The Criteria of Martyrdom (II) 

The Rise of the “Just War” in Christian Ethics  Christian Just War Teaching  The Logic of Christian Just War Thinking  Criticisms of Christian Just War Thinking 

Soldiers as Martyrs and Saints in the Early Church  Saints, Martyrs, and the Institutions of Medieval Christendom  Magistrate Martyrs in the Era of Reformation  Martyr Claims in the European Wars of Religion  Interlude: Colonialism, Mission, and Martyrdom  Holy War and Just War  The Nature and Varieties of Violence  Jesus and (Non)violence  Christian Violence, Jesus, and the Biblical God  Weighing the Just War Ethic 

23 25 32 39 42 49 51 58 64 70 73 78 82 88 91

97 104 115 119

viii Contents

6. Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom in the Real World  122 Christian “Realism”  Christian Calling in the Real World  Interlude: Military Calling, Moral Injury, and Just War Teaching  The Theology of Sainthood (I)  The Criteria of Martyrdom (III) 

123 136 142 151 156

7. Violence and the Christian Life in the Light of Martyrdom 

160

The Rhetorical Function of Martyrdom  Restraining the “Necessities” of Realism  Christian Soldiers and the Criteria of Martyrdom (IV)  Soldiers, Society, and the Church  The Theology of Sainthood (II) 

Epilogue: The Logic and Absurdity of Violence  Notes  Bibliography  Index 

160 163 183 204 208

211 215 263 275

Preface Violence is a double-​edged sword, although that is perhaps not quite the right metaphor. A sword has both a handle for wielding and a blade that cuts. The Christian church has found itself on both ends of the sword. Its members have been wounded by the blade of the sword, sometimes fatally so, with martyrdom emerging early in Christian history as the highest echelon of sainthood. To suffer the violence of the sword out of faithfulness to Christ has long been regarded as the pinnacle of discipleship. It represents the outer limit of what the costly grace of Christ (to use Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s term) may ask of its recipients. Though that grace ordinarily requires less of Christ’s followers, circumstances may arise where it asks for everything. The possibility of that ultimate demand sheds light on what it means to respond to Christ’s grace in more ordinary times. The Christian church has also given a tenuous blessing to its members to pick up the handle of the sword. The rise of just war thinking within Christianity meant that swinging the sword became part of ordinary life for some members of the church. The continued presence of a just war ethic in mainstream Christianity has meant that wielding the violence of the sword has been regarded as potentially consistent with a disciple’s faithful response to Christ’s grace. This has produced a strange paradox, one that does not often receive the attention it deserves. The church that has honored the willingness of its members to allow their blood to be shed for Christ has also bestowed great honor upon the willingness of some of its members to shed the blood of others. While regarding the suffering of violence as one of the demands of faithfulness, mainstream Christianity has also given sanction to the inflicting of violence in the course of faithfulness. One minority voice within the historic Christian community—​the “peace church” traditions—​have lamented this paradox as nothing less than contradiction. From their vantage point, Christians must choose whom they will serve. It must be Christ rather than Caesar, and his service requires laying down the sword and being willing instead to suffer the sword’s bite. Martyrdom rather than violence, even for a just cause, is the Christian call.

x Preface This book defends the other possibility: that martyrdom and justified violence may be consistent. It does so, however, in a way that takes the paradox and the peace church interpretation of it seriously. If a possibility, it is not a straightforward one, and thus not a simple claim to say that the paradox comprises two truths that must both stand despite their evident tension. In short, the Christian must be willing to suffer violence, but there may also be times when wielding certain forms of violence is justified. Moreover, the two—​martyrdom and justified violence—​are not just parallel paths, two separate and separable obligations that may in different circumstances place their demands upon the Christian. The potential intersection of these paths means, as this book will show, that commitment to a Christian just war ethic reflects a certain kind of theological mentality about the world that needs to be reflected in our theology of martyrdom. And even more importantly, it means that the truth of a theology of martyrdom places severe demands and restrictions upon how, when, and in what way the disciple of Christ may pick up the sword. The call to martyrdom, in other words, sheds light on what the church’s relationship with violence should look like.

Acknowledgments This book has been a long time in the making. The help, encouragement, support, and patience of many people made it possible. I am grateful to an array of Calvin University colleagues and former colleagues: Claudia Beversluis, Cheryl Brandsen, Todd Cioffi, Don De Graaf, Dan Harlow, Kyle Luck, Henry Luttikhuizen, Suzanne McDonald, Rick Plantinga, Ken Pomykala, Bill Romanowski, T. R. Thompson, Elizabeth Vander Lei, Matt Walhout, and David Wunder. I am thankful to Calvin’s Board of Trustees for its generous support in the form of a sabbatical leave of absence that was instrumental for the research and writing of this book. Calvin has also provided various teaching opportunities to test-​drive some of the ideas in this book. I am grateful to multiple groups of students who took a January intensive course on war and Christian ethics; two other groups of students who took an intensive course on the history and theology of Christian martyrdom; and a group of senior citizens—​including both of my parents—​who took a version of that class with the Calvin Academy of Lifelong Learning. I am especially grateful for insights I have received from the theological ethics students and Restorative Justice club at Calvin University’s campus at Handlon Correctional Facility. A few participants in these various classes will find themselves mentioned in notes at points where they were, as best as I can remember, the initial source of an idea, formulation, or insight in the book. In cases where I’ve forgotten, I beg my former students’ forgiveness while simultaneously expressing my thanks to them. A variety of friends and colleagues outside of Calvin also helped in a variety of ways, whether they remember it or not: Rob Barrett, Jay Blankespoor, Mitzi Budde, Sue Davies, Alan DeVries, Joel Gabrielse, Michael Gulker, Brian Hiemstra, Don Huizinga, Tony Kireopoulos, C. Ben Mitchell, Brian Paulson, Rubén Rosario Rodríguez, Elizabeth Vander Haagen, as well as the various members of the “Violence in an Age of Genocide” study group of the Faith & Order convening table of the National Council of Churches of Christ, USA. I must also mention my appreciation for the helpful suggestions made by the anonymous reviewers for Oxford University Press, as they exemplified the academic convention of peer review at its best. Finally, the editorial

xii Acknowledgments team at Oxford University Press, especially Cynthia Read, has been a joy to work with. I hope that all of the people mentioned here will accept my gratitude for their many forms of assistance and show forbearance for whatever ways in which the book is still lacking. My family members deserve special mention here. My parents have been steadfastly supportive, probably growing in their ability to sniff out when to ask about the book and when it might be better to pass over it in silence. My wife, Kelly, has been infallibly encouraging and understanding, as have my kids—​Joshua, Jonathan, and Annie. It is a joy to share the journey of life with all of them. I dedicate this book to the memory of my grandfather Robert and in honor of my father David (still going strong!), who modeled for me two different forms that Christian discipleship can take in relation to military service—​the elder serving in the US Army in one conflict and the younger conscientiously objecting in another. I am grateful for their lives and different manners of quiet and faithful witness in the face of war, which remain a valuable challenge for me as a disciple on the way.

Introduction Naming the Christian Martyrs

Those named as “martyrs” have long fascinated the members and observers of the Christian church, exerting a powerful pull on their imagination. For most Christians the idea of martyrdom likely evokes images of ancient believers being burned alive or thrown to lions for their steadfast faith in the one Creator God made manifest through Christ, which made them unwilling to offer worship to the Roman gods or even the emperor himself. In this vein, a figure like the second-​century bishop Polycarp of Smyrna is an apt paradigm for the Christian picture of martyrdom. When threatened with death, Polycarp is said to have heeded a warning from heaven to “be strong,” telling his persecutors that any suffering they could inflict upon him would pale in comparison to the divine judgment he would receive for turning his back on Christ.1 Accordingly, he willingly allowed the Roman soldiers to burn him. When the flames miraculously were unable to consume his flesh, he was stabbed to death, with the blood flooding from his body to douse the flaming pyre. We might think also of the early third-​century figures of Perpetua and Felicitas, young mothers whose faith eclipsed all other duties and led them to “fight” joyfully with the animals sent into the stadium in Carthage.2 Or with somewhat more recent history on our minds, we might think of John Foxe’s account of English Protestants persecuted for their faith—​for example, John Rogers, whose constancy led him to the stake in Queen Mary’s Catholic England, with a faithfulness that did not waver even when he glimpsed his distraught wife and children on his way to execution.3 Such figures are typically given the label and title of martyr, which falls into the broader theological category of sainthood. The title of martyr honors how they faithfully, courageously, and publicly displayed their allegiance to Christ in the face of deadly hostility. The stories told about these martyrs usually suggest that some act or symbol of disowning Christ, or at least sharing him with other gods (or in the case of Rogers, abdicating to another Christian confession), might have prompted their persecutors to spare their Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0001

2  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence lives. In the face of such temptation, these Christians insisted on their faith in Christ even though it would be fatal. A number of early martyr stories display the martyrs’ adamant yet simple confession of Christ as the reason for their death: “I am a Christian.”4 Their identities as those united to Christ superseded their concern for safety, comfort, and even life itself. In so dying, such believers have been given the label of martyr because through their actions they have served as a witness (Gk: martus), not just to heroic courage or even to the Christian faith in general, but to Christ himself, who also submitted to death out of faithfulness to God’s call on his life. In their dying the martyrs reflect Jesus’ own willing gift of his life unto death. If the martyr’s death somehow reflects or points toward Jesus’ willingness to give his own life for the world’s salvation, it is no stretch to say that martyrdom is an enacted form of theology. It is lived theology, theology experienced and experience infused with theological meaning. Through the lived experience of the martyr, a testimony is given to the truth of faith, of the Creator God, of Jesus’ life and death, of the Christian church, and so on. It is theology with boots on, theology brought from the often-​esoteric world of metaphysical treatises into the experienced reality of flesh-​and-​blood people in their struggle to live as disciples of Jesus. A variety of optical metaphors will help us to appreciate how martyrdom functions theologically and spiritually as a paradigm for the Christian life. Martyrdom functions as a spotlight, throwing the convictions and practices of the Christian life into clearer view, enabling those watching or reading the story to see the central elements of the Christian plot as the drama unfolds. It functions also as a focal lens, bringing something that may occasionally be rather hazy—​the expectations and possible cost of the Christian life—​into clearer view. It functions sometimes as a prism, separating out the various dimensions of Christian discipleship so that for the moment we can get a clearer glimpse of elements that are ordinarily of a piece and thus harder to distinguish. Finally, in a metaphor that has been especially central to the Anabaptist churches, martyrdom functions as a mirror. On one side, as an event of witness, it reflects the figure to whom testimony is given: the life and death of the martyr present a reflection of the life and death of Jesus. On the other side, the story of a martyr can serve as a mirror for the Christian observer: Do I see my life reflected in this story? There, if the painful grace of God called, would I go? Naming a particular figure in the Christian story as martyr, or intentionally telling the story of a martyr for a Christian audience, then, functions

Introduction  3 in part as an argument about the Christian life. The Christian life should be lived something like this. For example, the account of an Alexandrian Christian named Apollonius, killed in the late second century, tells of his patient and bold defense of Christian monotheism against Roman idolatry. After recounting Apollonius’s death, the text ends with these words: “So then because of his heroic deeds, brothers, strengthening our own souls in the faith, let us show ourselves lovers of the same grace, through the mercy and favour of Jesus Christ.”5 And in the introduction to an anthology of sixteenth-​and seventeenth-​century Anabaptist martyrdoms, readers are given the following injunction: “Before all things, fix your eyes upon the martyrs themselves, note the steadfastness of their faith, and follow their example.”6 The theme is also present in more recent martyrologies. Jon Sobrino, for example, ends one of his many reflections on the life and assassination in 1980 of Salvadoran archbishop Óscar Romero by saying: I should like to conclude by asking God to make the spirit of Archbishop Romero more and more present and effective among us. If we follow in his footsteps we shall further the cause of justice and peace, truth and love; we shall help denounce atrocities, destruction, and repression; we shall help to shorten and humanize our wars; we shall defend the cause of the poor throughout the world—​and certainly, in El Salvador, we shall defend the cause of a people that Archbishop Romero loved so much that he gave his life for them.7

In short, the martyrologies or “acts” of the martyrs that have been written and told throughout the Christian centuries function as exhortations, as narratival sermons, as lived homilies.8 Naming a deceased Christian as martyr is a means by which living Christians, the living church, proclaim that in specific extreme circumstances some facet of the Christian life was lived truly and faithfully. Telling the story of that martyr is a way of expressing to the living church that such a way of discipleship is also possible for the rest of us, whether in circumstances extreme or mundane. The display of the life and demise of the martyr is therefore not provided mainly for historical curiosity (though that, of course, is involved), but is intended to aid the ongoing living out of the Christian life by those who see and study that display. Invoking martyrdom, in short, is a call to faithfulness amid the demands of human life and the Christian life.

4  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence This book examines how martyrdom functions as a call to faithfulness in relation to the temptation, use, and restraint of violence in the Christian life. It may initially seem that we have terms that are out of place: is there any place for violence in the Christian life? If one is thinking about “the Christian life” as simply a matter of prayer or interior introspection in relation to God, that is, as a purely private or “spiritual” matter, then it may be correct to say that there is no place for violence in the Christian life. But if, on the other hand, we see “the Christian life” as shorthand for the whole of the Christian’s existence before God and in the world, then the question of the proper place of violence makes more sense. The mainstream Christian tradition has in fact declared that there are times when violence can be legitimately deployed by Christians without them leaving their Christian commitments behind. The context of a just war and the possibility of self-​defense immediately appear as examples, though they do not exhaust the Christian church’s traditional countenancing of violence by Christians. This traditional acknowledgment, of course, is challenged by the minority report that has been offered by the peace church traditions within Christianity. This pacifist tradition of moral inquiry and Christian discipleship doubts whether those who follow the Prince of Peace and are commanded to practice love of their enemies are ever justified in resorting to violence. What, then, is the appropriate place—​if any—​for violence in the life of the Christian? This book explores this persistent question by analyzing a prima facie paradox of mainstream Christian ethics and experience. At the heart of the Christian story, on the one hand, the very center of the Christian mythos, is the suffering of violence as the price of faithfulness. From Jesus himself to the martyrs who have lost their lives in the following of him, at the core of Christian faith is an experience of being victimized by the world’s violence, with a strange power and hope emerging from that very experience. At the same time, on the other hand, the majority opinion for most of Christian history has also held that there are times when the follower of Jesus is justified in inflicting violence on others. Examples are not hard to come by of the Christian faithful using violent means to defend themselves, their communities, their nations, and even the place of their religion in the world. In short, we have side by side in Christian experience the suffering of violence and the inflicting of violence, the giving of lives and the taking of lives, with each dimension fortified by careful examination in the long history of Christian theology and ethical reflection. The question is how these two prominent facets of Christian experience, martyrdom and the just war, these

Introduction  5 two sides of the paradox, fit with one another. Do they represent a contradiction at the heart of Christianity, the self-​defeating irony of those who follow a Lord who refused to defend himself opting to use harsh and sometimes deadly weapons in quest of a worldly justice? This first option is taken by the pacifist theological traditions. Samuel Wells, for example, finds the two to run parallel to one another, but in a mutually exclusive way: “Whereas the icon of heroism is the soldier, the icon of sanctity is the martyr. The soldier faces death in battle; the martyr faces death by not going to battle.”9 In this first option, nonviolence is a marker of martyrdom, which suggests that Christians should reject or radically rethink the just war tradition that the mainstream church has affirmed. For in such a case, it would be senseless to say that martyrdom is a lens or guide to the Christian life. If there can be no martyrdom amid the military life, then it seems to be an occupation that excludes Christian fidelity. Conversely, if there can be no Christian fidelity in such a line of activity, there can of course be no martyrdom. This book will defend a second option, namely, that these two facets of Christian experience are potentially consistent with one another.10 It is possible for the Christian soldier to die the death of the martyr while fighting. If so, the shape and markers of martyrdom will be a window into how, in what ways, and within what circumstances and limits violence fits into the Christian life. My case will flow out of the “realism” of the Augustinian tradition, although a version of that framework that appeals strongly to ideals, values, and principles rather than mere contextual or situational reasoning, principles that play a key role in distancing it from a cynical realpolitik mentality. From that perspective, I will argue for the propriety and moral rigor of just war principles, though in full awareness of the powerful challenge posed by the peace church traditions and their martyrologies. In terms of martyrdom, while in constant dialogue with the Catholic saint and martyr traditions, I will draw primarily from a Protestant theology of sainthood that lacks canonization processes and formal structures, and regards sainthood as an ideal and calling for the Christian many rather than just the few. The book will outline what the ideal of martyrdom could look like in view of the recognition by traditional Christian ethics that the quest for the good and right takes place amid sin and ambiguity, and occasionally may involve using violence or other lamentable means. The result will simultaneously challenge our typical understanding of martyrs and pose questions for mainstream Christianity’s attitude toward violence. If martyrdom is a valid theological category because it tells us

6  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence something not just about heroism or courage, but about Jesus and the fundamental demands of discipleship, then it may help us see some of the tensions and inconsistencies in the Christian tradition’s stances on violence. The working presupposition of this book is that ethical convictions will be reflected and refracted powerfully by the Christian experience of martyrdom and theological consideration of it. My main claim is that the shape of martyrdom should inform the kind of just war paradigm and ethic of violence affirmed (and lived) by Christians.11 Chapter 1 will set the stage for us by defining what Christian martyrdom is and exploring the tension between the markers of martyrdom and involvement in violence. Then we will consider, in Chapter 2, the possibility that nonviolence ought to be a criterion for martyrdom by examining the pacifist perspective on violence in the Christian life and the central role given to “defenselessness” in the Anabaptist martyr traditions. This will lead us to the development and logic of just war reasoning within Christianity (Chapter 3), and examples, some of them rather disconcerting, of the tradition’s affirmation of saints and martyrs who employed violence in the course of bearing the proverbial “sword” (Chapter 4). Plunging more deeply into the logic of a just war mentality, Chapter 5 explores more carefully what violence is and how it relates to the life and ethic of Jesus (who is supposed to be reflected in genuine Christian martyrdom). Chapter 6 draws upon Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s expression of Augustinian realism in conjunction with Protestant notions of calling and sainthood in relation to the “sword.” Chapter 7, finally, will draw together the various threads of the book in order to show how the shape of martyrdom informs the enacting and restraining of violence within the Christian life. In arguing that martyrdom and the just war can indeed be consistent with one another, albeit perilously so, this book explores ways in which theological descriptions of the Christian martyrs, as well as theological intuitions about who qualify as Christian martyrs, can shed light on the perennial Christian conversation about the propriety and prudence of violence in relation to the life of faith. Christian martyrs, including figures thought to be martyrs by some within the church and rejected by others, will appear as examples and case studies of the dynamics of Christian moral convictions. Martyrdom will serve as a focal lens to help us see with greater clarity what is at stake when the Christian uses or refuses (or the church community blesses or condemns) violence. Martyrdom will provide a prism to help separate out the different dimensions of this question. It will provide a mirror into which we can look and gauge how well our lives, especially our attitudes toward and use of violence, resemble Jesus and his witnesses.

1 Identifying Martyrdom In popular discourse, the term “martyrdom” has come to refer, in a generalized way, to someone who dies for a cause. As there are many causes, and commitment to them occasionally—​and always lamentably—​can lead to untimely death, there are many kinds of martyrdom. Socrates is lauded as a martyr for philosophical truth, having been put to death by the Athenians.1 Gandhi is sometimes proclaimed a martyr for human rights in India.2 A suicide bomber is branded by some as a martyr for Allah.3 The term is even further generalized when it becomes a way to refer to someone who stoically endures unfair treatment. Along these lines, John Irving’s charming character Owen Meany can say that he showed his friends how to be a martyr by steadfastly refusing to tattle on them even when they bullied him during Sunday school.4 Even further, the term is used to refer to people—​and we all know some—​who take a rather perverse pleasure in their own sufferings, including the many wrongs they perceive to have been done to them, that is, those who have a “martyr complex” or have a tendency to “play the martyr.” Here we might think of the figure of Amanda Wingfield in Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie, telling a friend on the phone who was suffering from a kidney ailment, but perhaps with herself in mind: “Horrors! You’re a Christian martyr, yes, honey, that’s what you are, a Christian martyr!”5 Though there is some debate about the precise historical beginnings of the term “martyr,” its generalized and popular cultural meaning mainly descends from a more specific Christian and theological sense of the term.6 We must have this more specifically theological meaning in front of us if the notion is to cast useful light on the question of the legitimate place, if any, of violence in the life of the Christian. Interestingly, that specific Christian sense itself descends from a more general classical and biblical use of the term.

Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0002

8  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence

The Origins of “Martyrdom” The language of martyrdom has its beginnings in the setting of the courtroom. In classical Greek, a martus was a witness who would give testimony (marturia, marturion). For example, around the turn of the fourth century BCE, the orator Lysias defends a client by saying that the person’s innocence has been “made clear to you by an abundance of evidences and testimonies (marturiōn).”7 Or slightly later, in the context of encouraging Athens to resist the encroachments of the Macedonian empire, the lawyer and stateman Demosthenes, in De Corona, asks for “witnesses” (tous marturas) to be called in order to “prove the truth” of his statement.8 The terminology can appear more informally as well—​though still with the legal meaning present—​for example, when Plato’s Republic has Cleitophon enthusiastically declaring that Polemarchus is a “witness” (marturos) to the truth of a point made by Socrates.9 The New Testament uses this courtroom sense of the word. Acts 6:13, for example, tells of the false witnesses (marturas pseudeis) who were brought against Stephen. And in the context of church discipline 1 Timothy states: “Never accept any accusation against an elder except on the evidence of two or three witnesses (marturōn)” (5:19). In a more figurative vein, however, the New Testament also uses the word to speak about how the lives and words of the people of God can point to, or give testimony to, the truth of the gospel, as when Hebrews 12:1 famously speaks of the “cloud of witnesses” (marturōn), or Jesus in Acts 1:8 tells his followers: “You will be my witnesses (martures) in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” We may think here of the famous Matthias Grünewald painting, in the Isenheim Altarpiece, of John the Baptist as the witness of Christ, pointing with outstretched finger toward the crucified Lord.10 The people and life of faith are called to be just such a pointer via their lives of witness. This New Testament notion of the Christian’s witness in life includes the idea that such a life of witness can extend to one’s death. Thus Revelation 17:6 speaks of the “great whore,” associated with Babylon and symbolic of the sinful world’s persecution of the truth of God and the people of God, as “drunk with the blood of the saints and the blood of the witnesses (marturōn) to Jesus.”11 Similarly, in his sermon in Acts 22, the apostle Paul speaks of how “the blood of your witness (tou marturos sou) Stephen was shed” (v. 20). In both of these instances, the life of the witness is seen as giving testimony to Christ, but the reference to blood links the witnessing life to a witness via

Identifying Martyrdom  9 death. In short, in the New Testament itself we see a trajectory from the courtroom use of martus and marturia toward the idea that death resulting from an insistently faithful life was a poignant and powerful way of offering testimony about the Lord who himself died prematurely as the result of an insistently faithful life on behalf of the kingdom of God. This trajectory is continued in the early Christian stories of believers killed for Jesus. Due to the fact that the early church faced occasional, and occasionally severe, persecution,12 the term martus came to take on a more specific and technical sense—​that of bearing witness to Jesus through a faithfulness that results in death due to the hostile powers of sin and the devil. One of the earliest such figures, again Polycarp of Smyrna, sometime around 170 CE, is said—​with the technical sense of the term now embedded in verbs—​to have “died as a martyr” (marturei), the “twelfth to be martyred (marturēsas) in Smyrna.”13 It is thus very early in Christian history that martyrdom emerges as a central form of Christian sainthood, indeed, its very archetype.14 Witness to Jesus through the Christian’s death is conveyed in numerous ways in the early church martyr stories, as the story of Jesus’ faithfulness unto death frequently appears in allusions reflected by the martyrs’ own faithfulness unto death. For example, the story of Polycarp includes various elements that point the reader back to the story of Jesus, to whose life and death Polycarp’s own life and death give testimony.15 For example, he is arrested by a police captain whom the text conspicuously names as Herod, saying that “destiny had given him the same name” as one of Jesus’ persecutors. Polycarp is also given up by a slave who was tortured for information about the bishop’s location, and whom the narrator rather harshly expects to “receive the punishment of Judas.”16 And like Jesus before him (according to Matthew’s account at least), Polycarp enters into the town on a donkey before eventually being executed after a stirring speech about his gratitude to God for being granted a “share among the number of the martyrs in the cup of your Christ” through whom he has assurance of resurrection.17 The language of martyrdom continued to be used in multiple ways. The more general sense never disappears of a Christian’s life as an act of “witness,” and after the age of Roman persecution ended, the idea of martyrdom frequently assumed a more spiritualized and metaphorical meaning, especially in the context of monasticism and asceticism.18 But the referent that anchors the metaphor by that point is the more literal matter of a death for Christ, a death that results from dogged commitment to an identity in Christ, to being a Christian, in the face of hostile pressure to apostatize. The figure of Sanctus

10  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence in the second-​century Martyrs of Lyons is an apt paradigm as he answers all questions (regarding his name, origin, ethnicity, etc.) with an assertion of his theological identity: “I am a Christian.”19 While more prominent at some times than others, this experience of persecution for being Christian has never wholly departed from the life of the church, as can be seen even today in places of the world where it is dangerous to be a confessing Christian.20 We may think, for tragic example, of the twenty-​one Coptic Christians killed by the so-​called Islamic State in Libya in 2015. For the faithfulness of such confession under fatal duress, such Christians are still given the honorific label of “martyr.”

Action and Passion in Christian Martyrdom In addition to such martyrs of Christian confession, the past century or so has brought to prominence believers who are killed not simply because of their Christian identity, but because their Christian actions brought them into conflict with the violence, injustice, and sin ensconced in cultural attitudes, social institutions, and political powers—​many of which incongruously claimed to be Christian. Examples are Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in his struggle against the ideology, policies, and leader of Nazi Germany; Martin Luther King Jr., in his quest for civil rights for black people in the United States; and Archbishop Óscar Romero, in his stand on behalf of the poor against the military oligarchy of late-​1970s El Salvador. These are but three of the most renowned recent figures whose Christian faith prompted a solidarity with victims and led to political activism in quest of social justice that sinful and unjust powers reacted against with violence. In recognition of the faithfulness of such Christians, there has been an attempt in recent theology—​and even in the ecclesiastical pronouncements of some churches—​to clarify and expand the concept of martyrdom so that it includes not just martyrs of confession, but also these martyrs of action and solidarity, and thereby also honors the witness of these Christians with the full theological weight of the title of martyr.21 For example, the remarkable wall of statues of twentieth-​century martyrs above the west door to Westminster Abbey in London includes martyrs from both categories—​those such as King, Romero, and Bonhoeffer who were killed in the line of activist Christian duty, as well as others such as Manche Masemola and Wang Zhiming whose deaths came more as the result of their determined identification and confession as Christian.22

Identifying Martyrdom  11 Extending the concept and title of martyrdom to Christians killed in the quest for social justice, however, has not received universal acceptance. The Anglican tradition, at least as represented by Westminster Abbey,23 exhibits an eager willingness to expand the traditional martyr category, including honoring Christians (such as Romero) who are not from its own limb of the Christian family tree. But other church traditions have wanted to tread more carefully. For example, though he was gunned down at the altar while celebrating the Eucharist, Archbishop Romero’s canonization by the Catholic Church in 2018 was long in coming and controversial along the way. It was only under the rather innovative reign of Pope Francis that the process of formally acknowledging Romero as a genuine martyr moved more substantially forward. In 1990, speaking out of some frustration that the Vatican had not seen fit to honor Romero’s witness and legacy with the title of martyr ten years after his murder, Salvadoran theologian Jon Sobrino asked: “If Archbishop Romero is not a Christian martyr, who in the world is?”24 In contrast to the official Catholic Church’s reticence to formally declare Romero a martyr, Sobrino (like Westminster Abbey) had no doubt about Romero’s status, drawing not only on his own theological judgment, but also citing the Salvadoran poor singing songs about Romero, praying at his tomb, and showing great love for him in reserving for him the title Monseñor. “The people,” Sobrino writes, “have already made him a saint.”25 Why, then, is there hesitation in some quarters, both theological and ecclesiastical, to name figures such as Romero—​or King or Bonhoeffer—​as martyrs? Sobrino suspects that such hesitation stems from the threat that Romero’s prophetic witness still poses to the wealthy and powerful who have a vested interest in the ordering of society that Romero came to condemn, as well as to the conservative church that had historically been an ally of the rich and mighty. While Sobrino’s suspicions deserve serious consideration and honest introspection, especially by those of us who enjoy wealth and privilege, there may also be a more neutral theological argument behind the unwillingness of some to name those so killed as “martyrs” of solidarity. On this view, true martyrs are those who directly die for Christ, for being unwilling to betray his name in the face of threats and temptation. Social justice or addressing the plight of the poor—​so this argument goes—​while they may be important and laudable, are not Christ. Lest it become an empty designation, the title of “martyr” needs to remain specific in its meaning and thus should be reserved for those who fit as closely as possible the criteria connected to confession and rejection of apostasy.26 This posture intends to

12  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence resist a slippage in the Christian use of the term that could generalize the category of martyrdom to the point of meaninglessness. At its worst (as feared by Sobrino), the resistance to a category such as “martyr of solidarity” or “martyr of action” may be rooted in the view that solidarity with the poor and victimized is only an incidental add-​on to Christian faith, not an essential part of following Jesus. At its best, however, it is an insistence on preserving “martyrdom” as a clear and meaningful theological category by carefully demarcating its meaning and scope of reference. If any kind of Christianly inspired premature death qualifies, then it is hard to see what is really being said when the title is applied. For example, should a Christian who patiently, courageously, and faithfully succumbs to cancer—​ however impressive and moving that witness is—​be emblazoned with the title of martyr? With this objection in mind, it is worth looking carefully at the arguments adduced for the expansion of the concept of martyrdom. One of the most significant is a brief essay by Karl Rahner, itself nestled within a broader collection of important essays in a 1983 issue of Concilium titled “Martyrdom Today.”27 Rahner takes as his starting point the classic Catholic definition of martyrdom, in his words, “the free, tolerant acceptance of death for the sake of the faith, except in the course of an active struggle as in the case of soldiers.”28 He notes that in Catholic tradition “faith” includes moral teaching, and points out that the Catholic Church has in fact canonized some as martyrs in the past for their adherence to Catholic moral teaching in the face of grave danger. Rahner’s question, then, is how far the traditional definition’s exclusion of “in active struggle” really applies, since it is precisely the active struggle of adherence to Christian moral teaching that led some past martyrs to their premature deaths. Rahner’s point is that what I am calling the more active “martyrdom of action” bears such strong resemblance to features of the more passive “martyrdom of confession” that they are better regarded as two subcategories beneath a single conception of martyrdom, with passive and active elements in each.29 In making his argument, Rahner begins with Jesus, suggesting that the Lord’s patient endurance of death was actually the consequence of an active struggle—​a veritable fight—​“against those in his day who wielded religious and political power.” The presence of an active struggle, in other words, does not make death what the person is actively seeking; the eventual death involves a passive element of acquiescence in the course of the struggle. Flipping the argument around, Rahner points out that even the traditional,

Identifying Martyrdom  13 seemingly passive martyr of confession has “by his or her active witness and life . . . conjured up the situation in which he or she can only escape death by denying his or her faith.” The rhetorical upshot of this portion of Rahner’s essay is the question of the status of Archbishop Romero (who had been killed three years prior to the publication of the article): “Why should not someone like Bishop Romero, who died while fighting for justice in society, a struggle he waged out of the depths of his conviction as a Christian—​why should he not be a martyr?”30 Rahner argues against using the early church martyrs—​“brought before a court and sentenced to death,” as in the case of Polycarp—​as such an exclusive paradigm that it closes us off to the possibility of other ways of “passively tolerating one’s death” that could be considered Christian martyrdom. Even in modern cases where Christians are not given the opportunity to confess their faith and accept a judicial death, it is still possible for them to foresee and accept the death that is “the consequence of an active struggle for justice and other Christian realities and values.”31 Ultimately, according to Rahner, whether in passive confession or active struggle, “in both cases death is the acceptance of the death of Christ, an acceptance which as the supreme act of love and fortitude puts the believer totally at God’s disposal” in the face of sinful hostility toward God and the demands of faith.32 For these reasons, Rahner suggests that Christians who die while actively working toward social justice could be considered martyrs. Nestled in the middle of Rahner’s short essay is a brief lament at the fact—​ at least as of 1983—​that the Polish priest Maximilian Kolbe had only been canonized as a “confessor,” that is, as one who suffered for the faith, in distinction from one who died for the faith. Subsequently, however, Kolbe was also canonized by the Catholic Church as a martyr for his solidarity with a single victim in the brutal confines of Auschwitz. One day in 1941, when ten prisoners were selected to be starved to death as recompense for the escape of another prisoner from their cell block, one among them cried out for mercy since he had a wife and children. Kolbe volunteered to die in the man’s stead, a bargain surprisingly accepted by the officer in charge. While there are many accounts of Kolbe’s death, one of the most intriguing is the creative account by another Polish Franciscan, Roman Komaryczko.33 Komaryczko writes his account imaginatively from Kolbe’s own perspective—​a first-​ person telling of the events from the martyr’s own vantage point “from the heights of heaven,”34 which includes reflections on the theological reasoning behind the Catholic Church’s willingness to canonize this Christian who was

14  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence killed for trying to save a man, and not directly for his Christian identity or confession. Komaryczko’s Kolbe figure analyzes how the whole Nazi system and the individual cruelties perpetrated by the officers at Auschwitz were ultimately founded on an odium fidei (“hatred of the faith”) among whose many manifestations was harsh treatment of priests. Referring to his own canonization, the Kolbe figure describes the Catholic Church’s development of the concept of a “corporate persecutor”—​a system of life and mind that reflects odium fidei.35 Yet Komaryczko’s Kolbe character gives an even more expansive analysis than the Catholic Church had of the concept, one that implicitly gives strong warrant for the category of “martyr of action.” Any attack on human life based on dehumanization, whether under Nazism or Communism (perhaps we could add unfettered Capitalism?) or any other ideology, is a rejection of the proper relationship between humanity and the Creator God and is hence implicitly anti-​Christian. “All those who plan such actions, organize them, and carry them out, participate in a way in odium fidei.”36 The system itself, even if no specific malicious human choices could be specified, reflects an implicit odium fidei. To resist such a system, as Kolbe did, is to affirm faith in the face of hostility. This approach links Kolbe’s active solidarity with one condemned man to his Christian confession, comprehensively understood, and clarifies the death he suffered as being ultimately for the faith and hence true martyrdom.37 While it has not gone as far as the Kolbe constructed by Komaryczko, the expanded conception of martyrdom developed in recent Catholic teaching points toward the legitimacy and importance of something like the category “martyr of action,” as seen also with Romero’s 2018 canonization. While the Catechism of the Catholic Church defines martyrdom as a “bearing witness to the truth of the faith and of Christian doctrine,” it also affirms that Christian witness involves both words and deeds.38 With such an understanding of martyrdom, we are not far from Westminster Abbey’s broader roster of twentieth-​century martyrs, which includes both martyrs of confession and martyrs of action. At the same time, as Rahner and Komaryczko show, we should not allow the distinguishing of action from confession, with the goal of legitimizing the former as a genuine form of martyrdom, to blind us to the close connection and overlap—​both conceptual and historical—​between these variants of Christian martyrdom. As the book of James reminds us, Christian confession means little without Christian action (1:22–​27, 2:14–​26). Thus the activism and risky political stance of the so-​called martyrs of action are best

Identifying Martyrdom  15 seen as expressions of their confession of the Christ who proclaimed the life-​ giving yet world-​challenging kingdom of God. Even in the early church, the simple confession “I am a Christian” struck a subtle yet very real political blow to the pretentions of Rome. Paul Middleton puts it well: “The confession, [“I am a Christian”], which the Christians longed to make was heard by Roman ears as a confession of being a member of a seditious, obstinate, stubborn and superstitious cult that threatened the very fabric of reality—​in other words, an enemy of the State.”39 Confession itself could be seen, then, as a threatening form of implicit activism. Like so many areas of Christian theology, in this discussion of confession and solidarity, of passion and action, we are presented with a useful distinction that ultimately admits of no separation. In sum, Christian martyrdom can be understood as the accepting of premature death in witness to Jesus and his call to discipleship. Since hostility to faith (odium fidei) takes different forms, the death of martyrdom can take multiple forms, ranging from death simply for being a disciple of Jesus to death for acting as a disciple in ways that threaten the powers-​that-​be in a particular situation. If courage, constancy, willingness to die, and some resemblance to the life and death of Jesus are markers of genuine martyrdom, then it is hard to see why the death of Kolbe, King, or Romero, for example, does not qualify as readily as that of Polycarp, Perpetua, or Rogers. The “martyrdom of action,” in short, is a natural counterpart to the more traditional “martyrdom of confession.”

Violent Action and Martyrdom? With the prospect of “martyrdom of action” before us, a different question immediately appears: are there limits to the kind of action or “active struggle” that can precipitate genuine martyrdom when it occasions a Christian’s death? Rahner himself admits that the precise limits to what kind of active struggle qualifies are unclear.40 Despite its controversy, Romero’s is actually a rather easy case, because his struggle against structural injustice on behalf of the poor was conducted nonviolently and he was gunned down while defenseless and in an act of strong identification with Jesus—​administering the sacrament of the Lord’s passion, death, and resurrection. The broader question here can be posed by considering a different situation where Romero, some time before his death, had his own theological vision and pastoral

16  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence leadership tested by the actions of another Salvadoran priest. In the course of a “frankly partisan” biography of Romero, Plácido Erdozaín tells of a priest, Father Ernesto Barrera (nicknamed Neto), who was shot to death in 1978 while physically fighting on behalf of the Salvadoran rebels, the “People’s Liberation Forces.”41 Erdozaín recounts the conversation and debate that Romero initiated among his advisers and other subordinates—​many of them priests or bishops who were hostile to Romero’s intensifying stance of solidarity—​about how to deal with the problem of Neto’s death, with the suspicion it cast upon the church, and how to honor him appropriately.42 As Erdozaín tells the story, the majority of those who voiced opinions viewed Neto’s actions quite negatively, with some arguing that his choice to pick up a gun had even cost him the honor of an ecclesiastical burial. However, one priest said to Romero: “If Neto died with a gun in his hand, it wasn’t to defend any kind of personal or selfish interest. He died because he was moved by his faith in the Lord and by his love for the people. He died fighting for the ideals of the poor, of the oppressed, of the exploited, fighting the cause of the poor. So I think the least we can do as a church is to give him a Christian burial as a priest of the church.”43 Romero eventually concluded that it was his responsibility as archbishop to be present with the body, drawing an analogy to Neto’s mother, who would be beside his body at the funeral regardless of the circumstances of his death. At the same time, the rituals surrounding the funeral were muted and significantly less elaborate because of the fact that Neto had died while participating in revolutionary violence. There was no procession through the streets as there had been with other priests who had been killed due to their nonviolent solidarity with the poor, most notably Father Rutilio Grande. Neto’s decisions and the context of his death were severely criticized, with one broadcast on the Catholic radio station likening him to “a rotten apple that had been removed from the basket in time to prevent the rest of the apples from going bad.”44 In the face of trenchant hostility and the deepening complexity of the political situation, Romero nevertheless decided to be present with Neto’s body at the funeral. As Erdozaín writes, “the important thing was that the bishop accepted Neto as a priest of the church and showed it by being present . . . on the day he was buried.”45 According to this account, Romero’s actions after Neto’s death and at his funeral confirmed that the archbishop did not believe that Neto’s participation in revolutionary violence contradicted his Christian faith or even his status as a priest. The latter is significant in view of traditional Catholicism’s

Identifying Martyrdom  17 position that priests are not allowed to participate in the fighting of war. Neto’s violation of that norm did not prevent Romero from honoring him as a Christian and priest at his funeral. But was he a martyr? Erdozaín himself does not raise this particular question, nor does he directly apply the term to Neto the way he does to Father Grande and especially to Archbishop Romero himself later on. He does, however, draw comparisons between the priest-​ soldier Neto and the defenseless victim Grande: “It hurt us that we could not carry Neto’s body through the streets as we had Rutilio’s.”46 Moreover, he speaks affectionately of Neto’s “sacrifice” and the “testimony of his life,” language that sounds a martyrological tone. Even more tellingly, Erdozaín refers to three revolutionaries who were killed at the same time as Neto as “our martyrs.”47 But was Neto really a martyr in the precise theological sense of the term? Is “martyrdom” the right word to describe his death? This is not simply a question pertaining to the Catholic canonization process and its conception of martyrdom, but also more broadly to all Christian considerations of martyrdom and its implications for the Christian life, where the place of violence has always been complex and contested. If the category of “martyr of action” is granted, what are its limits, and how are they to be drawn theologically? Should the employment of any violence (or complicity therein)—​even in an active struggle for justice or solidarity with marginalized victims—​disqualify a Christian from the honor and theological weight of martyrdom? It goes without saying that answers to these questions take different shape in different confessional and moral traditions within Christianity. The force of these questions is elevated by certain other facets of Rahner’s brief effort at enlarging the concept of martyrdom so that it might include figures such as Kolbe and Romero. Rahner also indicates that the Christian soldier who dies in the line of duty could, depending on the circumstances, be considered a martyr. Rahner’s point is not without nuance. On the one hand he admits that “it is not everyone who dies on the Christian or more narrowly Catholic side in a religious war who should be described as a martyr. In practice in religious wars of this kind too many secular motives are included, and the question remains open whether everyone fighting in such wars was really prepared for his or her death and really accepted it.”48 For Rahner, much rides on the person’s mindset and attitude as he or she approaches death. But on the other hand, later in the essay as he works to explain the connection of a Christian’s “active struggle” to the inner nature of Christian faith, Rahner writes that the “witness of faith” based on an unconditional giving over of

18  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence one’s self to God may also be what is shown in “death in battle because, just like the passive martyr in the traditional sense, this fighter experiences and endures the power of evil and his own powerlessness in the experience of his outward failure.”49 It is here that Rahner appeals to Thomas Aquinas’s commentary on Lombard’s Sentences, which suggests that a Christian who dies while defending society against attacks that are intended to damage the Christian faith could be regarded as a martyr.50 There are also analogues in the Christian East, for example, the ninth-​century patriarch Constantine-​ Cyril stating of “Christ-​loving soldiers” defending the church that “if they give their lives in the battlefield, the Church will include them in the community of the holy martyrs and call them intercessors before God.”51 This turn in the argument raises a number of questions. Should the French noble who joined the First Crusade, putatively to defend Byzantine Christians against Turkish aggression, be regarded as a martyr when killed on the way to Jerusalem? How about in the Fourth Crusade, with its even cloudier motives and results?52 Even if martyrdom might possibly apply to holy war (which rightly makes many people uncomfortable today), does it apply to today’s more accepted category of just war? Would an American soldier who volunteered for the army in 1944 mainly out of Christian outrage regarding the Holocaust be a martyr if killed in battle? What about if he was drafted rather than joining voluntarily? Could the soldier who enlisted in the US Army in order to defend “Christian America” from Islamist attacks after September 11, 2001, and who was killed in a firefight in Afghanistan, be rightly considered a martyr? What about a police officer killed on the job after pursuing this occupation out of a sincere and Christianly inspired sense of responsibility to contribute to a safe and flourishing community? Are these kinds of “active struggle,” involving the “sword” of the state (see Rom. 13:4), decisively different from the struggle waged by figures such as Kolbe, King, or Romero? Does the rightness and justice of the struggle itself have anything to do with our judgment of “martyr” or “not a martyr”? Must the killers, as in Aquinas’s suggestion, be fighting against Christianity in order for the concept of martyrdom to apply, or could the determination depend more on the motives for which the soldiers are fighting? Do the particular actions taken—​as well as those that Christian warriors choose not to take—​make a difference in the judgments we render about whether their story amounts to martyrdom, especially when violence is not only suffered but also inflicted by them in the course of their struggle?

Identifying Martyrdom  19 What these accumulating questions point to is the broader question of whether there is a compelling theological reason why “martyr” leaps more quickly to Christians’ lips when we think of Perpetua or John Rogers or Martin Luther King than it does when thinking about Neto or a soldier who perished in the Battle of the Bulge after enlisting out of a sense of Christian obligation. Or does such an instinct involve an unwarranted prejudice against those who fight, one that is out of tune with Christianity’s traditional ethical voice on the question of social responsibility and the justified use of violence?

The Question of Violence in the Christian Life and the Criteria of Martyrdom (I) In an attempt to disentangle these questions and understand the themes that underlie possible answers, this book is examining the relationship between mainstream Christianity’s tradition of just war teaching in relation to martyrdom. In one direction, the issue of violence will bring specific focus to our examination of the meaning and limits of martyrdom. In the other direction, the theological meaning and function of martyrdom will shed critical light on the appropriate place and shape of violence within the Christian life. Once again, we must be clear on how martyrdom—​and the naming of people with the privileged title of martyr—​functions within the Christian churches. At the most obvious level, “martyrdom” is a conceptual tool for honoring saints whose witness to Jesus is particularly stirring because it demanded the ultimate price, that of death. The fact that it is not usually applied to ordinary Christians who make their way faithfully to their deathbed—​ despite the fact that there is indeed a potent witness even in that—​but instead tends to be reserved for those whose faithfulness to Christ endured extraordinary pressures and threats, suggests that there is another level at which the notion of martyrdom operates, one that helps to explain why it is a honorific title usually reserved for the few rather than the many. This second level is that of focusing the attention of the living church on Jesus, his life, death, resurrection, and their significance for us, especially the radical demands of discipleship that Christ’s grace makes upon his followers. Martyrs are those who, in the particularities of their history, were called to an extreme version of “taking up the cross” (Mark 8:34). And in choosing to accept that extreme opportunity whose underbelly is great temptation, the martyr demonstrates genuine faith and reflects the true love that was displayed by Jesus—​namely,

20  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the willingness to give up one’s life out of love. This helps to explain, third, why martyrs have always functioned as exemplars. As those who followed Jesus’ example, true martyrs become models for the members of the living church, the “church militant,” to emulate. They shine a light on the expectations of discipleship for the Christian faithful. In other words, calling someone a martyr implies something like “All Christians ought to do this . . .” It is this mimetic function of martyrdom that stands behind Rahner’s plea to regard as martyrs those victims (such as Romero) who are killed in the course of active Christian struggle: The recognition of martyrdom with regard to a Christian engaged in an active struggle or fight would mean a significant official recommendation by the Church of this kind of active struggle as an example worthy of imitation by other Christians. . . . It has a very down-​to-​earth practical significance for a Christianity and a Church that mean to be aware of their responsibility for justice and peace in the world.53

Such a comment applies also to Protestant traditions without an official roll of martyrs. To call someone a martyr, whether formally or informally, is to judge that there we see the Christian life faithfully lived in the face of death; and it is to recognize that we are challenged to do likewise. If martyrdom has this function in relation to the living of the Christian life, then we need to seek clarity on the markers, or criteria, of true martyrdom. Especially given that the language of martyrdom often flops around in popular culture, what are the specific markers of genuinely Christian martyrdom? A set of preliminary criteria has begun to emerge in our considerations so far.54 If we accept both confession and action as legitimate forms of Christian martyrdom, the following appear as initial criteria: 1. The martyr is killed for something integral to her Christian faith, whether identity, beliefs, or actions. Accordingly, it can be said that she dies, whether directly or indirectly, for the sake of Christ. 2. The martyr has a way to avoid death by compromising on his faith commitments (what we might think of as an “opt out” clause)55 but chooses not to go that route. 3. The martyr does not seek death,56 but seeks rather to live faithfully as a disciple of Christ.

Identifying Martyrdom  21 4. The martyr accepts death in a way that shows the recognition that her own life is not the greatest good, and thus displays faithful preparation for the end before God. 5. In his life and death, the martyr provides a window onto something distinctive about the life and death of Jesus and about following him. 6. The martyr’s story has an exhortatory effect: “Go and do likewise.” It speaks to the ongoing living of the Christian life. Bringing issues of violence and war into the discussion will enable us to probe further the function of martyrs as ideals, as spotlights and prisms illuminating the contours of the Christian life, including some of its murkier corners. Using the topic of soldiers and war will help us to see the tensions before us, but we must keep in mind that soldiers are paradigmatic here but not the sole focus of our attention. The issue is violence in a broader sense (including self-​defense, policing, intervention for threatened victims, etc.). Just war as a key instance of violence as a publicly beneficial wielding of the “sword” is a helpful door into the topic because it has received significant ethical analysis in the Christian church over the centuries. It is, then, a synecdoche for a range of forms of violence. In later chapters we will be returning at key junctures to the criteria of martyrdom, honing and nuancing the list begun in this first chapter in relation to the arguments made along the way. Though this book argues that the call to Christian martyrdom and the church’s historic support of the just war ethic do in fact cohere with one another, Chapter 2 will first consider the possibility that nonviolence ought to be a criterion of martyrdom, if it is also—​as Christian pacifists have long contended—​an expectation for the Christian life.

2 Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom? The majority of this book explores the relationship between the just war tradition of Christian ethics, which allows for the circumscribed use of violence, and the meaning of martyrdom in Christian theology, which lauds the suffering of violence in witness to Christ. Talking of such a relationship in a positive way makes sense only in those churches and theological traditions that stand in the lineage of what I will take the liberty of calling “magisterial Christianity.” The language of “magisterial,” of course, is most often used in reference to the mainstream branches of early Protestantism, such as the Lutheran, Reformed, and Anglican traditions, which tended to develop a close relationship with the secular state and its civil magistratus, including its waging of war. These churches of the “magisterial” Reformation are in turn distinguished from the churches of the so-​called radical Reformation, especially the Anabaptist communities, which came to reject a close affiliation with the state and insist instead upon nonviolence.1 Though commonly associated with the Protestant Reformation and its aftermath, the label “magisterial” is also appropriate for the longer traditions of Orthodoxy and Catholicism, which have historically been just as comfortable serving as the official, sanctioned, and privileged religion of the state, going all the way back to the first Christian Roman emperor, Constantine, in the fourth century CE.2 Karl Rahner, whose broadening of the concept of martyrdom we unpacked in Chapter 1, as well as the medieval theologian whose views he invoked, Thomas Aquinas, both assumed the possibility of a close association between the Christian church and its members, on the one hand, and the secular state and its armed forces, on the other. Coming from this perspective of magisterial Christianity or “Christendom,” it is not surprising that both Aquinas and Rahner were willing at least to consider the possibility of soldiers as martyrs. Of course, the shape of “magisterial” Christianity today is quite different given the demise of Christendom and most official alliances between church and state. The possibility of a just war with Christians serving as soldiers is probably the main form that magisterial Christianity still takes. Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0003

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  23 However, before delving into that perspective in the next chapter, it is necessary first—​in the present chapter—​to examine the minority voice of the Anabaptist “peace church” traditions,3 which have insisted on a clear separation between the Christian church and the state, and especially a distinction between the wielding of the spiritual power of turning the other cheek and the secular power of the “sword.” From this pacifist standpoint, there is no legitimate place for violence in the life of discipleship. Accordingly, there is no place for Christian violence on the path to Christian martyrdom.

The Biblical Case for Pacifism The strongest biblical and theological argument for Christian abstinence from violence usually centers on the teachings of Jesus as presented in the Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew.4 Jesus enjoins upon his followers the ostensibly nonviolent, world-​denying practice of loving our enemies: You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well. . . . You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven. (5:38–​40, 43–​45)

In short, it is peacemakers who are among the blessed (5:9). With this passage as hermeneutical centerpiece, in “Violence in Defense of Justice,” a chapter in his acclaimed Moral Vision of the New Testament, Richard Hays argues that the New Testament leaves no room for violence in the Christian life.5 The church is instead called by its Lord to be a community that rejects the violent ways of the world, even if such a witness requires suffering. In contrast to various interpretive strategies of avoiding the face value of Jesus’ words, including the view (perhaps most famously espoused by Reinhold Niebuhr) that Matthew 5 functions as an impossible ideal in the here and now of history’s turmoil, conflict, and aggression that provides a window into the character of life in the eschatological kingdom of God,6 Hays argues that Jesus’ conclusion to the Sermon points us in a different

24  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence direction: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven. . . . And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on sand” (7:21, 26). Thus Hays concludes that “these words are meant to be put into practice.”7 Hays argues that the straightforward force of Jesus’ mandate of peaceableness is corroborated by the “impressively univocal” broader perspective of the New Testament canon.8 Jesus’ whole life displays a rejection of the world’s tendency to resort to violence to remedy conflict and injustice.9 Similarly, the central message of the theology of Paul is that God conquers his enemies by offering his Son to die on their behalf. And Paul’s corresponding ethical exhortations, especially in Romans 12, Hays points out, are strikingly similar to what Jesus lays out in the Sermon on the Mount: Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. . . . Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God. . . . No, [quoting Proverbs 25] “if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink.” . . . Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. (12:14, 17–​21)

In short, Hays states, “From Matthew to Revelation we find a consistent witness against violence and a calling to the community to follow the example of Jesus in accepting suffering rather than inflicting it.”10 Though the Old Testament includes numerous instances of holy war commanded by God, according to Hays, the hermeneutical ordering of the two testaments means that the New Testament “trumps” the Old Testament. Once Jesus has superseded the Old Testament law (“You have heard that it was said. . . . But I say to you . . . ,” as seen in the Matthew 5 passage just quoted), “once that word has been spoken to us and perfectly embodied in the story of Jesus’ life and death, we cannot appeal back to Samuel as a counterexample to Jesus.”11 Accordingly, Hays draws the natural conclusion that the Christian tradition’s historic just war sanctioning of violence “must be rejected or corrected in light of the New Testament’s teaching.”12

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  25

Christian Pacifism in History Hays states that his argument for a pacifist ethic from the vantage point of modern biblical theology fits with the perspective of the first three Christian centuries, which were “decidedly” pacifist.13 Indeed, most indications suggest that into the third century CE, the majority of Christian theologians adopted a similar position on violence, though recent scholarship has debated the chief reasons, the level of unanimity, and the extent to which the views of leaders were shared by the laity.14 Early theologians adopted this stance partly because they regarded nonviolence as the teaching of scripture (especially the Sermon on the Mount), partly because they were in a position of relative social and political powerlessness, and partly because they sensed that military activity would create an intractable clash of loyalties for the believer.15 In the early third century, for example, Tertullian posited a fundamental conflict between the military life and the Christian life.16 He writes about the matter in polarizing terms that call to mind his even more famous opposition of the traditions of Jerusalem and Athens: Incompatible are the divine and human sacrament, the standard of Christ and the standard of the devil, the legions of light and the legions of darkness. One soul cannot serve two lords: God and Caesar. . . . But how will [the Christian] wage war, nay, how will he even in peace do military service without the sword, which the Lord has taken away? For though soldiers had come to John and received a rule to be guided by, although even a centurio had come to faith, every soldier of later times was ungirded by the Lord, when He disarmed Peter.17

As indicated by the title of the work from which this quotation comes (On Idolatry), for Tertullian the “sword” is only part of the problem for Christians in the army.18 In fact, the shedding of blood is not foremost in his mind.19 In his Apology, when he writes in defense of the persecuted church, Tertullian acknowledges that Christians are diligent in praying for the emperor, and they believe such rulers are in their place because of “the decision of God, since He has placed them over the people.” But the army’s practice of swearing by the emperor’s “genius,” according to Tertullian, goes too far. Since such genii are actually evil spirits, he writes, Christians “are in the habit of exorcising them in order to drive them out of men, but not to swear by them in a manner that would confer upon them the honor of divinity.”20 However, though he rejects

26  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence a religiously elevated view of the emperors, Tertullian insists that the Roman regime has nothing to fear from Christians, a point that he makes using language from the Sermon on the Mount: “If . . . we are commanded to love our enemies, who is there for us to hate? Likewise, if we are forbidden to return an injury, lest, through our action, we become wrong-​doers like them, who is there for us to injure?” Emphasizing the strength that Christians find in their faith and their God, Tertullian notes that Christians would be courageous enough to fight in wars, even if greatly outnumbered, “were it not that, according to our rule of life, it is granted us to be killed rather than to kill.”21 Elsewhere he writes that the Christian’s renunciation of violence even in self-​ defense makes other kinds of violence even more unimaginable: “Shall it be held lawful to make an occupation of the sword, when the Lord proclaims that he who uses the sword shall perish by the sword? And shall the son of peace take part in the battle when it does not become him even to sue at law? And shall he apply the chain, and the prison, and the torture, and the punishment, who is not the avenger even of his own wrongs?”22 Thus Tertullian’s pacifism takes its cues both from the liturgical requirements of Roman military life, which he regards as idolatry, and from New Testament teachings such as the Sermon on the Mount. Tertullian’s position on violence is more nuanced than a simple rejection of violence as inherently evil. In his reflections on how Christians are faithful in praying for the emperor and empire, he includes prayer for the Roman military in his litany of intercessions: “Looking up to [God], we Christians . . . constantly beseech Him on behalf of all emperors. We ask for them long life, undisturbed power, security at home, brave armies, a faithful Senate, an upright people, a peaceful world, and everything for which a man or a Caesar prays.”23 It thus appears that Tertullian believes that military service is wrong for Christians, but not evil in absolute terms.24 He prays not only that the Roman armies will be brave—​and he obviously would have been aware of the fighting sometimes undertaken by soldiers—​but also implicitly asks that the army be successful, at least in protecting and securing the empire, something that required both the threat and the application of lethal violence. It is not that the sword or its shedding of blood are wrong per se, it seems, but that Jesus took away the sword from his specific community of followers. Another nuance in Tertullian that we should bear in mind is found in his discussion of what is involved when converts come from the ranks of the military. First, however, it is worth pausing briefly to reflect upon one of the

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  27 soldier martyrologies from patristic Christianity. In Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History, we read the account of a Christian soldier named Marinus. Probably in Caesarea around the year 260 (only about two decades after Tertullian’s death, albeit in the East rather than Tertullian’s West), Marinus was a soldier who was being considered for promotion when he was accused of being a Christian. His accuser stated that Marinus, due to his faith, was unwilling to sacrifice to the emperors and therefore was unworthy of his new position.25 When given a brief reprieve to reconsider his decision, Marinus was taken by the bishop into the local church and told to choose between his sword and a copy of the Gospels. “Without hesitation,” the text tells us, “Marinus put out his right hand and took the divine writings.” Shortly thereafter he was executed, “and so found his fulfillment.”26 It is notable that in this account there is not even the slightest hint that Marinus initially regarded his position as a soldier to be inconsistent with his Christian commitments.27 Could he have refused a promotion? Could he have kept quietly soldiering and believing simultaneously? If we accept the account as historically reliable in most of its details,28 it seems that Marinus had been able to avoid the task of sacrificing to the emperors that was generally (or at least occasionally) expected of the Roman military. That appears to have been the sticking point between military vocation and Christian faith, not the tasks involved in fighting. Another interesting feature is Marinus’s interaction with the bishop. Does the bishop’s act of posing a stark choice between gospel and sword merely imply that when the army vocation requires sacrificing to the emperors, then the profession becomes inconsistent with fidelity to Christ? Or is the bishop pointing out something that may not have occurred to Marinus beforehand—​namely, that there is a fundamental incompatibility between allegiance to Christ and the whole array of expectations upon the solder, including the expected veneration of the emperors, but also the use of violence? The account is not clear. However, we must remember that this account of Marinus comes from the pen of Eusebius, who was a great admirer and defender of Constantine. Though he heaps praise upon the earliest Christian martyrs who bled helplessly in Roman stadiums, Eusebius was also a strategic apologist for early magisterial Christianity.29 From that position, he appears to see no obvious or inherent incompatibility between the life of the soldier and the status of Christian martyr. When presented with a clear-​cut choice between competing liturgical obligations, Marinus chooses the gospel. Accordingly, Eusebius speaks of his “witness [marturian] to Christ” as the reason for his

28  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence death.30 For this book’s purposes, of course, it is important to recognize that Marinus is applauded as a martyr either in addition to or in replacement of his vocation as a soldier; his martyrdom does not happen while he was directly carrying out his military duties. The story of Marinus resonates with much in Tertullian’s perspective. Indeed, it mirrors the situation that precipitated the latter’s text De Corona, where a Christian soldier gets to a point where he must refuse an aspect of military service that is idolatrous. Tertullian believes that when a soldier “has become a believer, and faith has been sealed, there must be an immediate abandonment of [military] service.” As with Marinus, it is not acts of violence that Tertullian invokes as the main reason for his judgment, but the fact that “all sorts of quibbling will have to be resorted to in order to avoid offending God, and that is not allowed even outside of military service.”31 The “quibbling” he mentions is likely the soldier making special requests to be excluded from the army’s religious and symbolic activities that the Christian would regard as blasphemous. Furthermore, Tertullian’s mention of the “sealing” of faith means that one sacrament (of baptism into Christ) replaces the sacramentum of military service (a parallelism that structures Chapter 11 of De Corona). Interestingly, Tertullian recognizes that the conversion process often takes some time, and appears to have no quibbles with the Christian-​in-​the-​making continuing in the army until faith is formally “sealed,” even though wielding the sword would still have been part of the job. Once the deal has been sealed, however, he insists that the Christian must break with the army, even if that may require the price of martyrdom.32 The symbols of military service become, then, the symbols of the potential martyr’s devotion to Christ: the laurel crown and donative of military service are replaced by the “crown of martyrdom” and the “donative of Christ.”33 In this instance—​as seen with Marinus—​it is leaving the military life, where inflicting violence was likely, that occasions martyrdom’s suffering of violence. Regardless of the varied factors involved, something approaching a pacifist ethic, with Tertullian as our prime example (though others, such as Origen, were also opposed to military service), was prominent in the Christian church until the fourth-​century emergence of magisterial Christianity. The relevant verses of the Sermon on the Mount were one motivating factor, as was a broader concern to avoid idolatry.34 James Turner Johnson argues that it was crucially related to very early Christianity’s expectation of an imminent end of the world, which reinforced a separation from the world and its

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  29 institutions (such as the military). When it became clear that history was continuing, the development of the Christian community naturally involved a deepening sense of engagement with the world and society.35 Whatever the precise reasons, with magisterial Christianity, what we might allow as a more straightforward reading and political application of the Sermon’s call to enemy-​love and turning the other cheek were subordinated to other interpretations, other biblical texts, and other arguments (as we shall see in subsequent chapters). The pacifist perspective seen in the earlier church was largely muted in the Christendom of the Middle Ages, mainly by being applied solely to the behavior of priests and monks, although cropping up occasionally in fringe movements that had been forced out of mainstream society and church.36 More than a millennium after Tertullian, another expression of biblically inspired Christian pacifism, also separatist in its ethos, appears with the rise of Anabaptism during the Reformation era. It again flourished in a group of Christians who lacked the power of the state and were often persecuted by the (now Christian) state. In this context, the words of Jesus in the New Testament are a chief warrant for the Anabaptist view. For example, one of the early Zurich Anabaptists, Conrad Grebel, writes to Thomas Müntzer (who was more amenable to the use of physical weapons) that “the gospel and its adherents are not to be protected by the sword, nor are they thus to protect themselves. . . . True Christian believers are sheep among wolves, sheep for the slaughter. . . . Neither do they use worldly sword or war, since killing has ceased with them—​unless, indeed, we would still be of the old law.”37 Grebel thus attempts to correct Müntzer’s revolutionary form of Anabaptism with what he regards as the true and peaceable way of being made possible by Christ as the new covenant. It was this pacifist approach that mostly prevailed in Anabaptism, though (as we shall see) at cost of great suffering. Around three decades later Dirk Philips wrote a treatise summarizing the “ordinances” governing the true church of Christ. His sixth ordinance is the keeping of Christ’s commandments, in which the Sermon on the Mount unsurprisingly plays a major role, including the demand that Christians “must love their enemies, do good for those who do them evil, pray for their persecutors, bless those who curse them . . . and avenge not themselves, but leave the matter to God.” 38 Whereas Grebel talked about Christ as bringing a new “law,” Philips here speaks of “the heavenly philosophy, which Jesus Christ, the Son of God, received of his Father, brought down from heaven, and taught his disciples.”39 In his view, this following of Jesus’

30  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence commandments naturally relates to the seventh ordinance, that of Christian suffering and enduring of persecution. Rather than using—​as magisterial Christianity had done—​physical coercion to defend the church and its doctrine, the true church will only use spiritual approaches—​such as Christian discipline or the notorious “ban” or shunning—​to defend itself.40 Around the same time, Menno Simons makes a similar point: Peter was commanded to sheathe his sword. All Christians are commanded to love their enemies; to do good unto those who abuse and persecute them; to give the mantle when the cloak is taken, the other cheek when one is struck. Tell me, how can a Christian defend Scripturally retaliation, rebellion, war, striking, slaying, torturing, stealing, robbing and plundering and burning cities, and conquering countries?41

Accordingly, he shortly continues, “Our weapons are not swords and spears, but patience, silence, and hope, and the Word of God. With these we must maintain our heavy warfare and fight our battle. . . . With these we intend and desire to storm the kingdom of the devil; and not with sword, spears, cannon, and coats of mail.”42 In modern American Anabaptist Christianity, it is probably John Howard Yoder who has had the most distinctive influence on the pacifist ethic of this limb of the Christian family tree.43 In The Politics of Jesus, for example, Yoder argues that mainstream Christian ethics has squelched the distinctive and radical significance of Jesus by relying on natural law reasoning (e.g., the just war tradition) and social analysis.44 Beginning from the Gospel of Luke, but in the context of the whole New Testament canon, Yoder contends that Jesus presents a radical political alternative, one that hinges upon nonviolent resistance to the unjust powers of the world rather than the Zealot option available in the Jewish society of his day (or the militarism on offer in ours). While constantly tempted to “exercise social responsibility” through violence, Jesus responded with a “threefold rejection: the self-​evident, axiomatic, sweeping rejection of both quietism and establishment responsibility, and the difficult, constantly reopened, genuinely attractive option of the crusade.”45 As Jesus’ disciples, Christians are called to imitate his way of being, which is concentrated in the cross as an alternative to worldly ways of dealing with enemies and power. “Servanthood replaces dominion, forgiveness absorbs hostility. Thus—​and only thus—​are we bound by New Testament thought to ‘be like Jesus.’ ”46 Accordingly, for Yoder, the injunction in Romans 13 for Christians

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  31 to be subject to the authority of the state must be understood within the broader context of Paul’s argument in that epistle, which emphasizes that Christ has defeated the powers of the world and beckons Christians not to conform to the ways of the world. The call in Romans 13 is thus for Christians to be subject to the government under which they find themselves; the text is not, argues Yoder, a justification for Christians to participate in the sword-​ bearing functions of the state, whether that be the military or police.47 Extending Yoder’s insights from a virtue ethic standpoint, Stanley Hauerwas insists that only the following of Jesus—​which involves resituating our lives and stories in the story of God’s coming kingdom—​can free us from the violence toward which the uncertainty of the world and the quest for absolute security disposes us. The life of Jesus displays the fact that God empowers Christians, as the people of God, to live peaceably amid the violent ways of the world.48 While the problems of the world tempt the church—​ as they tempted Jesus himself—​to resort to violence, the assurance that God is bringing the kingdom can help Christians to endure violence rather than fall prey or acquiesce to it.49 Seeing their lives as part of the storyline of Jesus and the Creator God can help Christians to perceive the situations they face—​including life’s tough dilemmas—​as containing possibilities beyond violence.50 In this context, Hauerwas, drawing upon Yoder, reminds us that meeting violence with violence is not the only option for Christians, as martyrdom is always on the table.51 Both Yoder and Hauerwas diverge somewhat from the earlier Anabaptist mentality with their suggestion that a peaceable Christian community can exert a significant political influence.52 The basic pacifist view of “conquering” the sinful ways of the world through the following of Jesus and its concomitant love of enemy is, to be sure, not the sole property of the Anabaptist traditions, even if they have made it especially central to their identity. Hauerwas, for example, is a Methodist (albeit one heavily influenced by the Mennonite Yoder). We see elements of pacifism as a Christian minority report, for another example, in Lutheran pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s peace ethic (which fell just short of doctrinaire pacifism), especially his early writings,53 even though his life story and choices took him in the unforeseen direction of contributing on the outskirts of an attempt to assassinate Hitler. We see the pacifist impulse more consistently in the Christian quest for civil rights in the United States led by Martin Luther King Jr.54 In reflecting on his own journey toward pacifism, King pointed to the bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, as impressing upon him the nonviolence of the Sermon on the Mount, with the work of

32  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Gandhi in India showing how nonviolence could be effective: “This principle [of nonviolent resistance] became the guiding light of our movement. Christ furnished the spirit and motivation while Gandhi furnished the method.”55 At least in the context of the civil rights struggle, King takes issue with the just war tradition’s belief (perhaps also reflected in the Black Power movement’s openness to using force to achieve civil rights for black Americans) that violent means can produce a peaceable end: So, if you’re seeking to develop a just society, they say, the important thing is to get there, and the means are really unimportant; any means will do so long as they get you there—​they may be violent, they may be untruthful means; they may even be unjust means to a just end. . . . But we will never have peace in the world until men everywhere recognize that ends are not cut off from means, because the means represent the ideal in the making, and the end in process, and ultimately you can’t reach good ends through evil means, because the means represent the seed and the end represents the tree.56

And, for one last example, we also see the pacifist impulse in Jacques Ellul, uneasily affiliated with the Reformed tradition, who at the tail end of a nuanced discussion of the shape and nature of violence, describes it as “contradictory to the Christian life” because it means submitting to the violent “necessity” of the sinful world rather than the liberating freedom of Christ.57

Martyrdom in Anabaptist Perspective While it is a longer tradition and more varied perspective, the main protagonist in this particular story remains the peace church traditions associated with Reformation-​era Anabaptism, which assert nonviolence as a criterion of Christian martyrdom. That view of martyrdom, in turn, like all depictions of martyrdom, serves as an argument about the Christian life and how it ought to be lived. In particular, it shines a spotlight on the Sermon on the Mount and the self-​giving way of Jesus. In so doing, this tradition’s view of martyrdom challenges magisterial Christianity’s rapprochement with just violence. The importance of nonviolence in early Anabaptist spirituality courses through this tradition’s massive compendium of martyrologies, Martyrs’

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  33 Mirror. Anabaptist communities in Reformation-​era Europe experienced significant threat from both Catholic and Protestant (Lutheran, Reformed, and Anglican) sides—​the many faces of sixteenth-​and seventeenth-​century magisterial European Christianity. In 1659, the Dutchman Thieleman van Braght collected and synthesized various earlier martyr stories and collections, both small and large scale, into what he titled The Bloody Theater of the Baptism-​Minded Defenseless Christians.58 This book, more often simply called Martyrs’ Mirror, a title that van Braght borrowed from one of those earlier collections and used in later editions of his book, brought together Anabaptist martyr accounts from across Europe and across divisions within the Anabaptist world, and subsequently helped to forge a deeper sense of Anabaptist identity, especially among Mennonites.59 For stylistic simplicity, I will refer to Van Braght as the author of Martyrs’ Mirror when referring to the book, even though he drew upon the work of countless others (most of them nameless), including personal letters, court documents, and so on. Though it is a work sculpting together theology, history, and even folklore, Van Braght’s book can also be seen as a devotional work, a book of experiential theology intended to link the trials and victories, doubts and courage of this tradition’s martyrs with the ongoing challenges of the Christian life as lived with Anabaptist conviction.60 Van Braght considered this remembering of the martyrs, and thereby the distinctives of Anabaptist Christian identity, to be particularly needful in his own day, when he feared that the absence of persecution was becoming an occasion for laxity in faith.61 In the context of the time, the Anabaptists’ nonviolent response to persecution by magisterial Protestants and Catholics was inseparable from their theology of baptism. Rejecting infant baptism in favor of “believer’s” baptism and rejecting the use of violence in the face of persecution became the central identifying marks of these communities. The two went hand in hand, in fact, since their baptismal practice was a reason frequently given for the persecution and execution of Anabaptists. As such, these identifying marks also became essential criteria for true martyrdom: “Anabaptist martyrs belonged to churches that were always oppressed, not to churches that legitimated persecution.”62 Put in the terms of the tension that this book is exploring, Anabaptist martyrs were marked by the suffering of violence while refusing to inflict it. One of the purposes of Van Braght’s collection was to show that the Anabaptist position on baptism is actually true doctrine rooted in biblical teaching and in the best exponents of the early church, and not a recent

34  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence aberration.63 On that view, infant baptism is not actually real baptism at all, but at best a misguiding washing; it is those who can, from their own hearts and minds, profess faith in Jesus who should be baptized. Regardless of whether Van Braght’s argument is right or wrong in the end (a question on which disagreement will likely persist among the Christian churches until the eschaton), this Anabaptist conviction placed such communities at odds with political authorities, both in the Reformation era and centuries beforehand. Dating back to the fourth-​century Donatist controversy, “rebaptism” had been regarded in Roman law as a crime punishable by death.64 Thus the name “Anabaptist” was originally used pejoratively, associated with heresy and crime, even though the communities themselves eventually came to use (and even embrace) the term despite the fact that they do not regard their practice as actually rebaptizing.65 Not only did the act of “rebaptizing” show an unwillingness to bow to a civil (and ecclesiastical) law that Anabaptists regarded as wrong, but it also implied that being a Christian is a much weightier, more volitional identity than simply being born and baptized into a supposedly Christian society. Thus “rebaptizing” is a central symbol of a political theology that rejects Christendom.66 This rejection of magisterial Christianity, where citizenship in the church largely coincides with citizenship in the state, shows up even more prominently in the pacifist inclinations of the majority of Anabaptist churches from the Reformation to the present. At the heart of any state is the proverbial “sword,” either the use or threat of coercive force in order to discourage evil, to provide conditions for order and civic life, and maybe even to foster the possibility of virtue and flourishing. During the first centuries of Christian existence, as we have seen, the Roman army was seen as central to the good of Roman society, with both linked to the favor of the civic gods of Rome. While the Christian church and later the Christianized empire came to reject the role of the traditional Roman gods in that confluence of military might and civic prosperity, the magisterial church and state kept, with a few fairly minor alterations, a pivotal role for the military—​by then underwritten by the symbolic power of the cross as in Constantine’s chi-​rho.67 In that context, the well-​being of the church—​its freedom to proclaim and enact the gospel—​was regarded as dependent upon a well-​ordered society that in turn depended upon the strength of the military. In such a situation, the refusal to bear the sword could be seen not only as a politically problematic stance but also as a danger to the church.

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  35 The Anabaptist churches, however, as we have seen in Grebel, Philips, and Simons, regarded the call of discipleship as a call to peace rooted in the Sermon on the Mount. Similarly, in Martyrs’ Mirror, Christians are summoned “to follow [Jesus] in His defenseless life and cross-​bearing footsteps, prohibiting all revenge . . . and, on the contrary, commanding to pray for one’s enemies, to do good unto them who do us evil.” Accordingly, Van Braght emphasizes the defenselessness of the Anabaptist “lambs” (alluding to Jesus’ sending of the twelve disciples as “lambs among wolves”—​Luke 10:3; cf. Matt. 10:16). Those church leaders and civil officials who persecuted the Anabaptist Christians, in contrast, he labels as the “ministers of antichrist” or “rulers of darkness” or the “servants of Baal.”68 From such a perspective, nonviolence becomes a political marker between the true and the false church. True Christians are “innocent and defenseless lambs of Christ,” willing to suffer violence, while those who persecute and inflict violence upon others are false Christians.69 This means that “the cross is also the ensign of those who serve and follow Jesus Christ, the Captain of the faith; and that, on the contrary, those who afflict others, with crosses and sufferings, do not belong to this Captain, but are under another leader.”70 Thus nonviolent “defenselessness,” in its role as a marker between the true and false church, also serves to distinguish between the true and false martyr. If it is nonviolence—​along with believer’s baptism—​that serves as the cause that makes a murdered Christian into a martyr,71 then both the death and the life of the Christian must exhibit these markers. Because nonviolence is a marker of martyrdom, it is also an essential characteristic of the Christian life. This is the reason why Van Braght not only narrates the martyrs’ deaths, but also wherever possible includes copies of their letters, testaments, and court proceedings, which demonstrate what they believed, especially their (non-​Catholic) doctrinal convictions (including on baptism), and how they lived, especially their peaceable nonviolence.72 The most well-​known martyr in the whole work may be Dirk Willems.73 Though his story is narrated only very briefly (although accompanied in later editions by an evocative woodcut),74 Willems has captured many an imagination—​both in the Anabaptist world and beyond—​making him into the poster child of sixteenth-​century Anabaptist martyrs.75 In 1569, while Willems, accused of the offense of rebaptism, was fleeing across a frozen lake, his pursuer fell through the ice. Rather than seizing upon the latter’s misfortune as an opportunity to escape, Willems turned and pulled the man from the ice, saving his life. The thief-​catcher, almost despite himself, was

36  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence compelled to arrest his target anyway, which led eventually to Willems’s martyrdom, “confirming the genuine faith of the truth with his death and blood, as an instructive example to all pious Christians of this time, and to the everlasting disgrace of the tyrannous papists.”76 Nonviolent “defenselessness,” here in the more active form of doing good rather than allowing harm to one’s enemy, a living out of the harder clauses of the Sermon on the Mount, is a significant part of what qualifies Willems as a true Anabaptist martyr. Of course, Willems would not have been included in Van Braght’s collection if he had been, say, a Lutheran, committed to infant baptism, even if faith and enemy-​love had still coincided in his death. But at least as part of the equation, nonviolence—​here in a quite self-​sacrificial vein—​is what qualifies Willems as a martyr. Very few of the stories in Martyrs’ Mirror tell of Anabaptists with opportunities to employ violence to defend their communities or avoid their martyrdom. For the Reformation-​era Anabaptists, this was partly because they were in a minority faith community that made such resistance largely futile. But it was mainly because they were committed to, and had been formed into, a nonviolent way of life that largely precluded that as a realistic temptation. The book presents us with numerous general statements about the peaceable demeanor of Anabaptists when confronting death and their persecutors. For example, after telling of the torture and execution of fifty-​ four martyrs at Antwerp and Brussels in 1574, Van Braght writes: “All this these true witnesses of Jesus suffered, and were, as humble sheep and lambs of Christ, led to the slaughter, who did not resist, but were thus unjustly put to death by them.”77 Similarly, we encounter a number of scenarios where Anabaptist martyrs—​before their execution, whether in letters or courtroom interrogations—​make a case for nonviolence being integral to the fabric of true faith. For example, Van Braght includes a letter from Jan Gerrits to an acquaintance who was a Lutheran pastor. The letter focuses on the true “weapons of faith” being spiritual and not “carnal.” According to Gerrits, “A Christian does not know war, but must patiently bear all that comes upon him, for the Lord’s sake; for Christ taught His disciples only love for their enemies.”78 In another instance, a man named Claes de Praet poses to his Catholic interrogators the question, “Did the apostles persecute and maintain their church with fire and sword, as you do?”79 In short, Van Braght and his sources give a New Testament rationale for nonviolence, one that hinges on the absence of physical violence in Jesus and the founders of the church

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  37 as they set the pattern for the later church, and one that takes significant cues from Matthew 5 in the Sermon on the Mount. We have seen already how Martyrs’ Mirror is not merely a compendium of Anabaptist martyr stories. It is, at its deepest level, a theological argument about the nature of authentic faith, of the identity and shape of the true church of Jesus Christ, and of the expected demeanor of its members, who identify as disciples of the crucified Jesus who commanded us to turn the other cheek by loving our enemies. The Anabaptist martyrs, in reflecting Jesus, bring into focus the way of true faith. Because of this much more expansive claim, the earlier sections of the book recount the whole history of Christian martyrdom (and baptism) in order to set the stage for the Anabaptist episodes of the story.80 In other words, Van Braght compiles a history that situates the Anabaptist story of martyrdom in the broader, longer story of the church, and thereby argues for the continuity between the ancient truth of Christianity and Anabaptism, with the latter as the most authentic heir of the former.81 Accordingly, Van Braght works to appropriate as much pre-​Reformation material as possible for the Anabaptist cause. He portrays earlier figures and episodes as antecedent moments in the Anabaptist story of holding to truly biblical baptismal theology, facing persecution because of it, and sometimes enduring martyrdom. Thus, for example, he frames even his discussion of the seventh century as “for the defense of the cross-​bearing church of the Anabaptists and defenseless Christians.”82 In other words, it is the theological convictions of the sixteenth and seventeenth century Anabaptist communities that provide the critical principles whereby earlier martyrs are appropriated (or not) for the Anabaptist story. In keeping with these principles, he states at the outset that those who diverged from Anabaptist teaching, even if others acclaim them “martyrs,” are not included in his book.83 That is because the martyrs of a false church are sorely misnamed. They fail to fulfill some of the key criteria of martyrdom because they fail the criterion of the genuine Christian life founded in the enemy-​love of the Sermon on the Mount and Christ’s example of defenseless sacrifice. This polemical ecclesiology sets up Van Braght’s reading of Christian history, and is aimed in part at showing that Anabaptism is nothing new but rather the (only) faithful extension of the ancient church.84 After describing the lives and acts of faith of various New Testament figures whose path of discipleship met with the terminus of death, he moves to the martyrdoms that took place in the patristic era. He basically adopts the theology of martyrdom already present in the early church texts. At the same time, whether due to

38  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the sources from which he was drawing or due to his own editorial hand, some significant details from the patristic texts themselves are absent from the versions of these martyrdoms that he relates. Perhaps due to his preference for “defenseless” martyrs, he omits details from these accounts that involve the martyrs being active in their own demise (e.g., Perpetua guiding a soldier’s knife to her own throat) or that suggest a life committed to anything other than nonviolence (e.g., some of the soldier martyrs; see Chapters 3 and 4). It is notable that Van Braght includes the story of Marinus. However, he does not call Marinus a soldier (rather, a member of the “nobility”), even though he relies upon Eusebius, who does. But he does relate the episode where the bishop asks Marinus to choose between the gospel and the sword.85 The point becomes one of straightforward nonviolence, with prior sword-​ bearing work minimized by omission. Indeed, the selective way in which a writer such as Van Braght is forced to appropriate these earlier martyrs into his story hints at the theological tensions pertaining to martyrdom and violence, as well as cracks in the historical foundation of his narrative. As Van Braght heads into the post-​Constantine portion of his narrative, the role of attitudes toward the sword and baptism naturally becomes more prominent. Throughout it all, the criterion of nonviolence is at work in his discernment of who the martyrs actually are. In an instructive “notice to the reader” in the midst of the part of the story devoted to the early fourth century and Constantine, he states that “many errors began to arise among some of those who were called Christians, especially among those who belonged under the Roman dominion. Yea, they went so far as to resort to carnal weapons . . . through which the defenseless and meek lambs of Christ suffered not a little distress, fear, and sorrow.” The fact that some of these were killed for their “opinions” (not, tellingly, their faith) means that “the death and the glorious martyrdom of the true Christian believers were not a little obscured.” He thus indicates his resolve not to include any as martyrs “who can be shown to have been guilty of gross errors, much less of the shedding of blood.”86 For example, in a later portion of his history, while he appropriates (whether rightly or wrongly) the Waldensians as in accord with Anabaptist theology,87 he rejects those among them who engaged in defensive warfare, styling them as “called Waldenses though they had no fellowship with them, and never were true brethren with these people.”88 Nonviolence, the willingness to suffer violence but not inflict it, is the red thread that links Jesus to true Christians (i.e., Anabaptists) in Martyrs’ Mirror. As such, it is a marker

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  39 of martyrdom, which serves to underscore nonviolence as an expectation for the Christian life. Martyrs’ Mirror has been more valued and utilized in some sectors of contemporary Anabaptism than others. What David Weaver-​Zercher calls “tradition-​minded Anabaptists” have unsurprisingly been more steeped in the stories, ethos, and overall argument of Martyrs’ Mirror than “assimilated Anabaptists.”89 Yet among assimilated Anabaptists, social justice and resistance to militarism have been a primary concern, one that resonates strongly with the book’s argument for nonviolence. If Van Braght had compiled the book at the close of the twentieth century,90 he likely would have included reflection on Anabaptist conscientious objectors to military service in the various wars of that century, especially the Vietnam War. The theme would not have been death so much as the scorn and social price such American Anabaptists endured. We would be in the vicinity of what the Christian tradition has often called the “confessor,” who suffers but does not die for the faith. Inasmuch as Van Braght regards the rejection of violence as closely associated with the suffering of violence, it is likely that his storyline would have included Martin Luther King’s leadership in the American civil rights movement. William Robert Miller, in a biography published only months after King’s 1968 murder in Memphis, uses martyrdom in the title of his book as a key category for making sense of King’s witness. Though the term doesn’t appear frequently in the text of the book, Miller’s reflections on the role of faith in King’s life,91 on sin as what brought about King’s death,92 and on King’s nonviolence in relation to Jesus,93 as well as Miller’s use of “resurrection” as a way to make sense of the legacy of King,94 all place his interpretation of King on the theological terrain of martyrdom as developed by Van Braght. It is martyrdom in an Anabaptist vein (especially given King’s confessional identity as a Baptist), with nonviolence as a key marker of it.

Nonviolence and the Imitatio Christi Here we must recall a key aspect of the significance of martyrdom—​namely, that the question of who the martyrs are is important because of how the martyrs function in part as examples, paradigms of the faithful Christian life whose witness to Jesus summons forth our own witness to Jesus. The label of martyr is both an argument about the texture of the faithful Christian life and an invitation to it. Put differently, the witness of the martyrs can function,

40  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence almost sacramentally, as enacted proclamation, which can work to convert its observers, perhaps even more powerfully than discursive teachings can.95 This conviction is certainly present in Reformation-​era Anabaptism. Dirk Willems, again an apt case, is said to be “an instructive example to all pious Christians of this time.”96 Similarly, the account of Joos Verbeeck, martyred in 1561, concludes as follows: “Once more he cried, ‘O heavenly Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.’ And with this, he quietly offered up a fiery sacrifice, for an example and pattern to us all.”97 Accordingly, Van Braght describes the martyrdoms that he relates as “effectual sermons,”98 not only through the death accounts themselves, but through the words and exhortations found in letters written by the martyrs—​encouraging their congregations, families, and friends to remain firm, to rejoice even in their suffering, and to glimpse the power of gospel truth through their witness. The constant martyr is a paradigm for Christians to follow that empowers their own faithfulness. The exhortation to emulate the martyrs is itself rooted in the martyr’s own imitation of Jesus. The relationship between nonviolence and martyrdom as a paradigm for the Christian life is perhaps especially striking in Anabaptism because of the close parallel between such martyrs and Jesus—​who also died before his natural time as a “defenseless lamb,” indeed the lamb of God whose execution takes away the sins of the world (John 1:29). As we saw earlier, Hays uses Jesus’ whole life of peaceable proclamation and enactment of God’s kingdom as the linchpin for a pacifist reading of the injunctions of the Sermon on the Mount as normative for Christians. Put in such terms, the core of the argument for Christian pacifism boils down to a divine command ethic underscored by an imitatio Christi ethic.99 We should do what Jesus says in the Sermon (divine command) because that is what Jesus himself did in his life and ministry (imitatio Christi). The “imitation of Christ” has enjoyed popularity in Christianity because it has a compelling biblical basis and historic credence as a paradigm for the Christian life.100 Throughout his early ministry, Jesus’ call to his disciples is “Follow me.” In the Gospel of John, Jesus offers himself as an example of service for his disciples: “So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you” (13:14–​15).101 At a pivotal later point in Jesus’ ministry it becomes clear that following his way will involve suffering, self-​denial, and perhaps death, just as it did for him: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  41 and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 16:24–​25). We see a similar motif elsewhere in the New Testament canon, often involving the call for Christ’s suffering to be followed or replicated in some way by the Christian. For example, the first epistle of Peter states: “For to this [enduring suffering for righteousness] you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps” (2:21). Or the well-​known words of Philippians: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (2:5), which involves self-​emptying, humbling, and obedience, even unto death (vv. 6–​8). In the very next chapter Paul encapsulates the yearnings of the Christian life in corresponding terms: “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead” (3:10–​11). Thus elsewhere Paul can tell the recipients of 1 Corinthians: “Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ” (11:1). If—​following these voices of the New Testament, to say nothing of revered texts such as Thomas à Kempis’s Imitation of Christ in the fifteenth century102—​emulating the attitudes and practices of Jesus is a general expectation of discipleship, that is to say, an expectation of the Christian life, then it seems natural to regard it as a condition of martyrdom. The true martyr arrives at her fate as a result of enacting in her own life the patterns and ethos of Jesus’ life. Given the imitatio motif ’s biblical accent on Christlike suffering, martyrdom is thus a particularly concentrated and extreme expression of the imitation of Jesus. In these terms, martyrdom could be seen as a limit case of the imitation and witness to which all Christians, all followers of Jesus, are called, while the closeness of the final result of that imitation depends significantly upon the circumstances and context of that particular Christian’s life and calling. This means, returning to our overarching inquiry about Christian uses of violence in relation to those saints whom the church venerates as martyrs, that the question must be asked about the relationship between Jesus and violence. It is difficult, to put it mildly, to point to any significant dimensions of Jesus’ life that would provide mimetic warrant for Christians to employ violence in their own lives as disciples. As Hays writes, “The evangelists are unanimous in portraying Jesus as a Messiah who subverts all prior expectations by assuming the vocation of suffering rather than conquering Israel’s enemies. Despite his stinging criticism of those in positions of authority, he never attempts to exert force as a way of gaining social or political power.”103

42  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence One episode that is occasionally claimed as a violent exception to the generally nonviolent pattern of Jesus’ life is his “cleansing” of the Temple. Hays admits that “there is a sense in which [Jesus’ actions] are violent, particularly the overturning of the tables; Jesus does not politely ask the sellers and moneychangers to leave.”104 However, argues Hays, this incident makes reference to the Old Testament’s eschatological promise of the coming divine kingdom of peace, doesn’t result in Jesus taking control of the Temple, and doesn’t appear to result in anyone being hurt. “It is, rather, an act of symbolic ‘street theater,’ ” he states, “an act of violence in approximately the same way that antinuclear protesters commit an act of violence when they break into a navy base and pour blood on nuclear submarines.”105 Along these same lines, N. T. Wright argues that Jesus’ actions in the Temple are best seen as a powerful critique of the Jewish people’s (mis)understanding of the story of Israel, which had provided warrant for nationalism and violent revolt.106 If interpreters such as Hays are correct, the actual demeanor and behavior of Jesus cohere seamlessly with his “Love your enemy” and “Turn the other cheek” commands in the Sermon on the Mount. The life that Jesus offers to be imitated underscores the commands that he gives his disciples to obey. This is especially visible at the end of Jesus’ life. Hays writes: “Jesus’ death is fully consistent with his teaching: he refuses to lift a finger in his own defense, scolds those who do try to defend him with the sword, and rejects calling down ‘legions of angels’ to fight a holy war against his enemies.”107 In sum, Jesus lives, works, and dies for the kingdom of God in a peaceable way. The imitatio motif, central to the Anabaptist martyr story and the peace church traditions’ argument about authentic Christianity, suggests that our life for the kingdom of God should follow suit.108 From this perspective, the call to emulate Jesus’ nonviolence must inform our criteria of martyrdom.

The Criteria of Martyrdom (II) Chapter 1 outlined an initial list of criteria by which to determine whether and when to describe a Christian’s death as martyrdom. To review: 1. The martyr is killed for something integral to his Christian faith, whether that be identity, beliefs, or actions fundamental to the Christian life. Accordingly, whether direct or indirect in manner, he dies for the sake of Christ.

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  43 2. The martyr can “opt out” of death by compromising with powers that pressure her faith, but chooses not to go that route. 3. The martyr is not directly seeking death, but simply striving to live faithfully as a follower of Jesus. 4. The martyr accepts the risk of death in a way that shows the recognition that life itself is not the highest good, and hence shows genuine preparation for the end of life before God. 5. The martyr, in his life and death, illuminates something distinctive and true about the ministry and death of Jesus and about following him. 6. The martyr possesses a compelling story that summons those who read or hear it to “go and do likewise.” Reformation-​era Anabaptists would insist upon a life of nonviolence as an additional marker of true martyrdom. This perspective would hold today in many Anabaptist churches. For a Christian to be regarded as a martyr in the full sense of the term, a life in keeping with pacifist commitments, which are taken to be clear and normative teachings of Jesus underscored by his own example, is required. This is one of the marks of the true church as Anabaptists know it, so it is also one of the marks of the genuine martyr. Accordingly, it could perhaps be another criterion to add to the list: “The martyr imitates the nonviolent peaceableness of Jesus in her life and faith.”109 However, nonviolence could also be seen as a stance that would inform several of the criteria we have arrived at so far. For the pacifist Christian martyr, whether Martin Luther King or Dirk Willems, the unwillingness to resort to violence or to shirk enemy-​love in times of crisis is regarded as integral to the life of discipleship in the sense of obeying the Sermon the Mount and imitating the demeanor of Jesus (criterion 1). Such a way of life carries with it a risk that could potentially be avoided by employing force or violence in defense of the self, the church, or a community of the marginalized, but the martyr resists such temptation (criterion 2). Resisting such temptation is accepted as the price and risk of faith in the expectation of that decision being vindicated by the justice of God (criterion 4). And in following the nonviolent way of Jesus, the pacifist Christian—​when killed as a martyr—​emulates and displays the nonviolent life, ministry, and kingdom of Jesus (criterion 5) in a way that invites others to follow (criterion 6). From an Anabaptist perspective, criterion 5 could be restated as

44  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence 5a. The martyr, in her life and death, imitates the nonviolent, peacemaking ministry, life, and death of Jesus. It may be, given today’s ecumenical sensitivities, that fairly few contemporary Anabaptist theologians and biblical scholars would be inclined to insist on nonviolence as an absolute requirement for “mere” Christianity, and thus for any plausible claim of Christian martyrdom.110 However, their confessional perspective—​in its difference from magisterial Christianity—​would seem to require nonviolence in the immediate story leading to death as a marker of genuine martyrdom. For in this tradition, the true martyr’s suffering of violence is inconsistent with the inflicting of violence. It should already be clear from Chapter 1, and will be even clearer from the arguments advanced in chapters that follow, that I do not agree with the peace church traditions’ stance on violence and the Christian life (nor would my tradition of Reformed Protestantism include the rejection of infant baptism as correct doctrine or a criterion for true martyrdom). Nevertheless, pacifist Christianity offers an urgent reading of the New Testament and a potent portrayal of what is involved in the faithful following of Jesus, one that beneficially interrogates those of us who ultimately disagree with it. For even if nonviolence is not the Christian life’s most distinguishing feature, the peace church traditions remind us that something distinctive is required in the life of the Christian in order for the Christian’s death to be regarded as martyrdom in the full theological sense and function of that term. Our original criterion 1 could thus be sharpened: 1b. The Christian martyr is killed for something integral and distinctive to Christian faith, whether that be identity, beliefs, or actions fundamental to the Christian life. Accordingly, whether direct or indirect in manner, he dies for the sake of Christ. To be sure, this is not an insight unique to the peace church traditions. But because the pacifist traditions, at least historically, reflect such a concrete sense of what the distinctive texture of the Christian life should look like, it reminds us of something that ought to be obvious—​that the Christian life should indeed have a distinctive texture. Rather than nonviolence, that texture is better stated more broadly as one of self-​denial displayed through loving actions directed toward God and one’s neighbor. Thus criterion 4 could be restated:

Nonviolence as Criterion of Martyrdom?  45 4b. The martyr displays loving self-​renunciation in accepting the risk of death in a way that shows the recognition that life itself is not the highest good, and hence shows genuine preparation for the end of life before God. While the peace church traditions regard nonviolence as the quintessence of such self-​denial, the broader traditions of Christianity regard self-​renunciation as something that can take a variety of forms, perhaps (paradoxically?) even in the bearing of the “sword.” The burden of the final two chapters of this book will be to further flesh out these revised criteria of Christian martyrdom in terms of self-​renunciation and love of God and neighbor (a category that ultimately includes also our enemies), and to show that there are situations in which such criteria can apply even to the Christian engaging in justified violence. But first, in the next three chapters, we must examine the just war reasoning of magisterial Christianity in the theological light of martyrdom.

3 The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom In the previous chapter we saw how the Anabaptist tradition—​as poignantly underscored by its traumatic experiences of martyrdom at the swords and stakes of other Christians—​presents a theological and practical challenge to the broader Christian church’s conception of the life of discipleship and its relationship to violence. Martyrs’ Mirror insists upon a stance of consistent nonviolence as a criterion for Christian martyrdom because this tradition sees nonviolence as a distinguishing characteristic of the Christian life itself. “Martyrs” are so lauded in this tradition because they exemplify, in extreme circumstances, the call placed on all Christians to live out the Sermon on the Mount’s command to turn the other cheek through the difficult love of our enemies. Martyrdom casts light on the demand for peaceable nonresistance (or peaceful resistance, in more recent expressions) because it reflects the way of Jesus himself. This remains a relevant and pointed challenge because, both historically and today, it is not the view held by most Christian churches in the world—​the churches that I have broadly labeled “magisterial.” This chapter will examine the relationship between the theology of martyrdom and the just war thinking endorsed by magisterial Christianity, which admits the possibility of a circumscribed use of violence by people of faith. In the previous chapter we encountered an early church martyrology that tells the story of the soldier Marinus, who chose the gospel over the sword at the cost of his life. As we saw, the story does not make it entirely clear whether he rejected the “sword” because of the violence involved in its use or because of the religious behavior that would often have accompanied it in the context of the Roman military, or perhaps both reasons. Similar questions appear in another story from a slightly later period, the account of Julius the Veteran, whose death likely took place in the spring of 304, toward the beginning of the “Great Persecution” under Diocletian and Galerius.1 The narrative begins with the arrest of Julius and his interrogation before a prefect named Maximus. During his interrogation, Julius readily Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0004

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  47 admits that he is a Christian. When asked whether he is aware of the imperial orders to sacrifice to the gods, he responds: “I must not lose sight of my living and true God.”2 Maximus asks Julius why he doesn’t just perform the seemingly insignificant trifle of “offering some incense and going away.” Julius gives a multifaceted reply. On the one hand, like many a martyr throughout the ages, he says that he cannot break the commandments of God. But then he appeals, on the other hand, to his strong, even faultless, record of service in the Roman military as evidence of his faithful character, while admitting that he perhaps should not have chosen to serve in the army.3 He is quite plain about the fact that he had been a Christian, a follower of the true Creator God, during his time in the army: “I was in the army . . . and when I had served my term I re-​enlisted as a veteran. All of this time I worshipped in fear the God who made heaven and earth, and even to this day I show him my service.”4 We see here Julius’s sense of dual citizenship, albeit an asymmetrical one. The story’s death scene begins with Julius receiving a kiss, likely an allusion to Judas’s betrayal of Jesus as suggested by Julius’s sardonic comment about it. After being encouraged by another Christian soldier, who was also imprisoned, Julius commends his spirit to Christ, asking to join the company of martyrs. He is then beheaded, ending his life “in Christ Jesus our Lord.”5 Regardless of whether the text mainly reflects the historical Julius’s mentality or the attitudes of the narrator, it is clear that military service and Christianity, including martyrdom, are not regarded as totally and obviously incommensurate with one another. At the same time, there are hints of misgiving about the intersection of these two callings. We have here a situation in which it was possible for a Christian to be a soldier for Rome, or at least for a soldier to become a Christian, apparently unobtrusively, but with the ordinarily endurable tension of loyalties eventually breaking out into insuperable conflict. With the advent of Emperor Constantine, and the legalization and eventual privileging of Christianity, however, what appears to have been an emerging possibility earlier on rather quickly becomes a new status quo. In a Christianized empire, the church comes to terms with its members serving the state as soldiers, and simultaneously serving God in the process. This coming to terms is reflected in the just war mindset that emerged in Christianity, which required what James Turner Johnson calls a “synthesis between Christian ideals and the moral relativity of the world of history.”6 While this just war mindset is sometimes characterized as a specifically Christian contribution to the Western tradition, its roots are actually much older than the Christian church.

48  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence A case can be made that some features of just war thinking are anticipated by aspects of the holy war waged in the Old Testament. (Throughout the remainder of this book we will frequently encounter the importance and yet difficulty of the just war/​holy war distinction.) While acknowledging strong similarities between Israel (and even Yahweh’s) attitudes toward war and those of surrounding ancient Near Eastern peoples, John Wood notes that Israel was less prone to glorify war and employed methods that were comparatively mild (even if they understandably horrify us today).7 While most Old Testament warfare falls into today’s “holy war” category and includes instances of vengeful divine sanction of total war (which present no small theological challenge in view of the New Testament),8 the Old Testament also includes the sense that war is never intrinsically valuable—​when righteous, war has the end purpose of peace, justice, and even reconciliation with bitter enemies and the salvation of the world.9 Wood notes the presence, even amid the war of the Old Testament, of many creative examples of peacemaking in the face of conflict, as well as Israel’s compelling vision of eschatological peace and calls to peacebuilding.10 (He calls this “pacifism,” probably not the most precise term given the broader martial context in which they are found.) The main “just war” motifs that Wood finds in the Old Testament are instances where war is waged not due to a command of God but “on the basis of a universal sense of justice,” one that is especially concerned for the vulnerable, as in Joel 3.11 Similarly, he contends, the Deuteronomic laws of war acknowledge “the necessity of conflict,” but “impose severe restraints on warmaking,” even if those restraints look somewhat meager to us today.12 Such restraint appears even in other strands of the Old Testament. For example, in 2 Chronicles 28, the nation of Israel is chastised by the prophet Oded for planning to enslave the people of Judah, whom they had defeated in battle. Yahweh had given Judah up to the Israelites as a form of discipline, but did not intend for them to be severely mistreated. Here we perhaps see a shade of how the later just war tradition understood the proper treatment of prisoners of war, albeit in the context of quasi-​civil war with divine sanction. Seeing the Old Testament as an antecedent of just war thinking is of course problematized by the wholesale slaughter commanded by God at some points of the Old Testament.13 Thus, while there may be some Old Testament precedents, the more fundamental roots of the just war mentality lie in the ancient Greek and Roman world into which Christianity was born.

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  49

The Rise of the “Just War” in Christian Ethics Plato occasionally reflected on the place of war in human life and how it relates to the more desirable condition of peace. For example, his Laws dialogue includes a remark from the Athenian that the “true statesman” and “finished legislator” will regulate “war as a means to peace,” and not the other way around.14 And in The Republic, amid book 5’s discussion of the proper ordering of society, the question arises whether children should accompany parents to war, because they, as “future soldiers,” will be enabled to learn the ways of their future vocation.15 While agreeing on the benefits of such an arrangement, Socrates and Glaucon also recognize the need to guard children from the violence and inherent uncertainties of war: “The dangers of war cannot be always foreseen; there is a good deal of chance about them.”16 As the conversation continues, it becomes clear that the discussants presuppose the inevitability of war, and even its permissibility; their concern is how to mitigate its effects. One such consideration is the need to remember that other Greeks or Hellenes should not be enslaved, and that when battles are fought between groups of Hellenes, such conflict ought to be regarded as a temporary condition, since the various groups of Hellenes are “by nature friends.”17 Because of their inherent friendship, and thus the deeper goal of peace on the far side of war, Hellenic peoples should not intentionally kill civilians or utterly destroy one another when fighting, since “the guilt of war is always confined to a few persons,” and “the many are their friends.”18 Roland Bainton suggests that Plato’s reflections represent the first articulation of what became the “just war” code of behavior.19 We must, of course, bear in mind the implication that war with non-​Hellenes need not involve such restraint.20 In the Roman world, under the influence of Stoicism, these Greek beginnings of “just war” restraints on military activity were further developed by thinkers such as Cicero.21 Drawing upon the concept of a single natural law, authored by God, that would “be valid for all nations and all times,” Cicero (probably through his figure Laelius, although this section is fragmentary) argues that the “ideal State” will undertake war only for defensive or responsive reasons: “Those wars are unjust which are undertaken without provocation. For only a war waged for revenge or defense can actually be just.”22 Not only is aggression forbidden, but similar to Plato’s view, the goal of defensive war should be the restoration of peace—​and not just any peace, but a “peace that shall not admit of guile.”23 Moreover, a clear declaration of

50  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence war preceded by requests for reparations is necessary for a war to be deemed “just.”24 Cicero also suggests that the state has a responsibility to oppose injustice, by military force if necessary: “He who does not prevent or oppose wrong, if he can, is just as guilty of wrong as if he deserted his parents or his friends or his country.” This responsibility is rooted in the affection toward one’s children and kin that is implanted in us by nature, which leads us to band together with others in the public life of the state “and thus by our skill, our industry, and our talents to cement human society more closely together, man to man.”25 Cicero insists, however, that this responsibility toward one’s own family and state should always be tempered by a responsibility even to the enemy. Since humans are rational beings, resolving a dispute “by discussion” should be the first resort; only when that fails or is impossible is the use of force appropriate. Finally, during fighting, enemy soldiers who give up their weapons are to be protected. And in victory, “We should spare those who have not been blood-​thirsty and barbarous in their warfare.”26 What we have here in Cicero is a Stoic expression of what later just war teaching systematizes as the principles of just cause, right intention, last resort, and immunity from attack for prisoners of war, considerations that need to be met if a military action is to accord with the “claims of justice.”27 Regardless of whether Rome prosecuted its wars in accordance with these principles (and Cicero thought that it did, at least most of the time),28 such an approach to war was held up as an important ideal in the ancient world. While many early Christian theologians were likely aware of this moral tradition, it exerted rather little actual influence in the very early Christian world because the church was such a small part of the population, often scorned by majority society, and eventually declared illegal, in addition to various theological reasons why the early church emphasized its separation from the “world.” At the same time, recent historical scholarship has recognized a strand in the early church of growing willingness to serve in the military—​as with Julius the veteran.29 As we saw in Chapter 2, however, most Christians during the church’s first two centuries followed an ethic that we can broadly label “pacifist,” partly because of biblical teaching such as the Sermon on the Mount, partly because of the pagan religious obligations required by the Roman military, and partly because of a perceived mandate to remain separate from the world. George Kalantzis ventures that an even deeper reason was that the earliest Christians saw their faith as a reversal of the imperial power dynamics of Rome.30

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  51 With the growth of the church’s numbers, a developing sense of the church’s responsibilities for the good of life in the world, and the rise of Constantine as the first Christian emperor, however, there eventually occurred a merging of key Christian ideals with the classical world’s reflections on how war can and should be waged in harmony with justice. Bainton aptly describes the prima facie ironies that attended this shift, including its expression in Constantine’s choice of the Christian chi-​rho symbol as an emblem of military might: One cannot but marvel that neither the emperor nor the Church felt an impropriety in placing the cross upon the military labarum. Constantine tacitly ranged himself in the succession of the martyrs in that he was the first emperor to bestow upon himself the title Victor. This designation, which the pagans only gave to the gods and the Christians only to the martyrs, was assumed by the Christian emperor on the ground that what the martyrs had commenced with their blood, he had completed with his sword.31

On the other hand, Johnson points out that the majority of Christians—​ including those in the army—​reflect a rather seamless transition.32 While the pacifist leanings of the earlier church were followed by some in the new situation, particularly in the fledgling monastic world,33 the majority of ecclesiastical leaders and theologians reconciled themselves to the altered shape of Christian responsibilities in a situation of legality and increasing political power.34 It did not take long (415 CE) until only Christians were allowed in the Roman army.35 The result was a Christian borrowing and reshaping of classical just war principles.

Christian Just War Teaching Drawing upon his teacher Ambrose of Milan, Augustine of Hippo had an especially formative role in the West, such that Paul Ramsey can characterize him as the “first great formulator of the theory that war might be ‘just,’ which thereafter has mainly directed the course of Western Christian thinking about the problem of war.”36 Though Augustine does not develop a sustained systematic theory of war and its possible justification and justice, his occasional reflections were historically influential as “they underscored the idea that a Christian’s life in the world in history implies responsibility for assisting in creating and maintaining public order for the sake of justice and peace.”37

52  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Augustine’s earlier reflections on Christian participation in war are present in his treatises against various heresies present in the early fifth century CE, including Donatism. He struggled with the question of how to squelch this long-​standing North African Christian perfectionist movement that claimed its own succession of bishops as the true church, and in turn regarded the Catholic Church (including Bishop Augustine) as usurper. Catholic attempts to suppress the Donatist church, even by means of Roman military force, began before Augustine was even born, giving rise to martyr accounts from the Donatist pen that are remarkable both for their affinities with earlier church martyrologies and for their moments of acid criticism of Catholic Christians and their leaders.38 Of course, some Donatists used rather violent means of their own in their struggle against Catholic Christianity.39 On the Catholic side, Augustine came to regard the use of force as a legitimate way to stop the Donatists.40 While this situation only partly qualifies as consideration of “just war” (by today’s usual definitional standards), since it centered on religious and theological controversy, Augustine’s treatise concerning The Correction of the Donatists (c. 417) is instructive for the way in which it brings biblical and theological themes to bear on the question of appropriate use of violence. First, Augustine strives to show his reader, Boniface, a Christian tribune responsible for some actions to be taken against the Donatists, that the Donatists are at fault; it is they who “maintain rebellious hostility against the unity of Christ.”41 They were “disturbing the peace of the innocent for one reason or another in the spirit of the most reckless madness,”42 committing violent acts that compromised public safety and the ability of the true church to proclaim the gospel.43 It is because of these aggressive and dangerous actions of the Donatists that Augustine approves of the use of coercive violence against them. He appeals to the call of the church to save sinners/​ heretics “from the path of destruction,” interpreting such work as an expression of Christian charity.44 What happens when a Christian government uses force against heresy is simply the opposite of what is done to the church when its righteousness is persecuted out of enmity—​namely, persecuting unrighteousness out of a “spirit of love,” giving “proper discipline” so that those disciplined will be corrected, recalled from error, and shown the truth.45 According to Augustine, this may have to take the form of violence and punishment, but it is at bottom a work of mercy, because the Donatists will be rescued from false teaching and given the opportunity of being “made whole in the Catholic Church.”46 Yes, he admits, some may be killed. But that is for

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  53 the greater good: “What then is the function of brotherly love? Does it, because it fears the shortlived fires of the furnace for a few, therefore abandon all to the eternal fires of hell?”47 Rehearsing the same basic argument later in the treatise, Augustine argues that it would in fact be “the extreme of cruelty” to simply let heretics have their way.48 It would uncharitably leave them, and those who fall under their sway, to destruction for heresy. Technically, Augustine’s analysis fits under what today’s discussions usually label the “holy war” category because of the transcendent end involved—​preserving true doctrine against dangerous heresy. Yet the discussion is not entirely devoid of what we today think of as just war elements because the cause must be defensive and violence aimed at rescue.49 Instructive also are Augustine’s earlier reflections on war in a book, written around the year 400, against the views of a Manichaean named Faustus—​ albeit largely with Old Testament military actions in mind. Augustine distinguishes between what we might call the collateral evils of war and the real evil of war. The fact that there is violence and killing in war may be undesirable, but Augustine thinks that what is truly evil about war is “the desire to do harm, cruelty in taking vengeance, a mind incapable of peace, fierceness in rebellion, and a lust for domination”—​in short, wrong intentions, a malicious spirit, and unchecked violence.50 In his view, these very things are what good and just people will fight against in order to resist and punish them. This general framework enables Augustine to interpret the Sermon on the Mount’s “Do not resist an evildoer” line as a “disposition [that] lies not in the body but in the heart.”51 It is a matter of a peace-​directed state of mind and heart that is possible even in the midst of physical actions involving violence. He interprets Jesus’ admonition to his disciples to “give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s” (Matt. 22:21) as an implicit sanction of the vocation of the soldier, since Caesar’s taxes were used to pay his soldiers.52 Similarly, as we return to his later letter to Boniface, Augustine makes clear that he believes the use of violent force to restrain heresy is lamentable. It would be better, he states, “that men should be led to worship God by teaching, than that they should be driven to it by fear of punishment or pain.” But when efforts at persuasion don’t work, it is necessary to resort to coercion precisely so that such people, having been coerced, may be taught.53 It is here that Augustine finds warrant for such coercion in the actions of Jesus himself, whose conversion of the apostle Paul did not begin with teaching, but rather “dashed him to the earth with His power; and that He might forcibly bring one who was raging amid the darkness of infidelity to desire the

54  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence light of the heart, He first struck him with physical blindness of the eyes. . . . Let them recognize in [the case of Paul] Christ first compelling, and afterward teaching; first striking, and afterwards consoling.”54 This is, to be sure, a strikingly different application of the imitatio Christi motif than we saw in the previous chapter. In sum, what we have here in Augustine, in the context of a struggle against heresy in a Christianized empire, is a preliminary theological sketch of a “just war” approach to the use of violence. Christian discipleship and the deployment of (some) violence are now seen as consistent. Underpinning Augustine’s biblical interpretation is a magisterial political theology—​the conviction that the use of force is legitimate when the ruler is Christian, an option that wasn’t on the table for the apostles and earlier theologians such as Tertullian who lived under pagan rule.55 In fact, Augustine can tell Boniface, the tribune, that “it is clear that in you it is actually a part of your military valor to serve in truth the faith which is in Christ.”56 By implication, Augustine is also saying that it is part of Boniface’s faith to serve with a right-​minded military valor and leadership. Whereas Marinus’s bishop required him to choose between gospel and sword, Bishop Augustine encourages Boniface to serve the gospel by means of the sword. Augustine develops a broader and more famous rendition of these themes in The City of God. In this his magnum opus, Augustine offers a theological explanation of the shape of history through the metaphor of two “cities” that represent contrary impulses and driving forces in the world.57 The “earthly city” is the world as enslaved by sin and love of self, expressing “lust for domination,” which is one of the central earthly goods that govern human actions and the trends of history.58 The “heavenly city,” on the other hand, represents both God’s heavenly dominion and our world as it is created and reclaimed by God. The church, the society of human beings who strive to orient themselves according to love and service of God, is a pivotal means by which the city of God exerts its influence in the world. The contrast between the two cities provides significant leverage for the church’s theological critique of the ways of the world—​awareness of the true justice of God reveals the cracks in efforts at justice in society.59 However, though belonging to the city of God and striving to live for God, the church remains situated in the world, with all of its ambiguity, misdirection, and violence, including war. “The truth is,” Paul Ramsey says in summary of Augustine’s point of view, “that fratricidal love and brotherly love based on love of God are always commingled in human history.”60 Augustine can certainly not be accused of being overly

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  55 optimistic about the world or naive about war. In book 19, where one of his discussions of war can be found, he laments the obvious evils that accompany war: “all those terrible wars, all that human slaughter, all that human bloodshed!”61 Augustine’s rhetoric shows that he sees himself rearticulating and extending an existing just war tradition: “The wise man, they say, will wage just wars.”62 Accordingly, Augustine emphasizes that this wise man, attempting to act in accord with justice, will only wage war because it is genuinely necessary and will carry an attitude of lament into his waging of war. Following this classical tradition, moreover, Augustine affirms that the demands of justice sometimes require the waging of war, since the injustice of the opponent must be resisted in order to preserve society. This point comes through even more clearly in his earlier treatise against Faustus. Augustine affirms that the rightness or wrongness of a war depends significantly on its cause: “It is not permissible . . . to doubt that it is right to undertake a war . . . under God’s authority either to strike terror into, wear down, or subdue the pride of mortals.”63 Even in cases where the cause is unjust or the ruling authority is mistaken or evil in waging war, the soldier who obediently fights is “innocent,” because for him obedience is a duty.64 Further in book 19 of City of God Augustine insists that some sort of peace is always the purpose of war. Even an unjust aggressive war, which may seem to be aimed solely at conquest and gain, is ultimately motivated by the desire for “peace with glory.”65 Augustine offers various examples, such as how the aggression of robbers and even the most ferocious beasts seems to be motivated by some kind of peace, simply one more to their liking and benefit than the previous peace. Although this applies even to the tyrant who wages an aggressive war, Augustine claims that because such tyranny rejects the “just peace of God and loves its own unjust peace,” it is barely worthy of the label “peace.”66 The right kind of war, in contrast, will be aimed at the right kind of peace—​one characterized by justice. As we survey these dimensions of Augustine’s account of war and the conditions under which it can be appropriate for the Christian to participate, it is fair to say that he adds rather little to the classical tradition’s prior treatment of the justice of war. Even his linking of the just waging of war with Christian charity is anticipated by Cicero’s view that going to war is ultimately rooted in affection for kin in society and by Plato’s view that restraint in war is required by friendship that persists even with one’s enemy. In the context of heresy, of course, Augustine’s view of charity includes concern for the

56  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence postmortem destiny of the enemy. What Augustine arguably does add, however, is a more profound account of the phenomenon of war itself that roots it in the sin and finitude of creation and includes the Christian insistence that war will not be the final word on human history. This theological account of the world’s brokenness informs the stance that Augustine and the magisterial traditions required of the Christian—​to wage war for justice when necessary but to do so reluctantly and in a spirit of peace.67 According to Paul Ramsey, Augustine’s position on just war includes the sober recognition that a unilateral aggressor and absolutely clear just cause will not always characterize justified war. The imperfect justice of the just war, Ramsey suggests, “may tragically be on both sides.”68 Later thinkers in the Augustinian tradition, such as Francisco de Vitoria, acknowledged that at very least both sides in a conflict usually think they have justice on their side—​what Johnson labels “simultaneous ostensible justice.”69 Augustine’s spirituality of just violence and his appreciation for the ambiguity of sin in history were assimilated by the magisterial traditions in the West as the just war approach became the standard ethic of these traditions.70 Beginning in the twelfth century, Christian scholars began to systematize just war thinking, drawing heavily on Augustine’s beginnings. Due to the work of thinkers such as Gratian and other canon lawyers, this had become a well-​developed tradition by the time of the high scholasticism of the Western Middle Ages.71 While I am focusing on theological contributions, the consolidation of just war thinking into a more robust tradition involved much beyond the theological, with the cultural code of knighthood in the Middle Ages as a major contributor, especially to norms related to fighting morally.72 In articulating that consolidation of the just war tradition in the thirteenth century, Thomas Aquinas appeals frequently to the authority of Augustine in the Summa Theologiae’s analysis of war. Thomas’s defense of the possible justice of war stands alongside contention, schism, and strife in the midst of his lengthy examination of Christian charity. While vices like contention, schism, and strife clearly fall into the category of sin, Aquinas invokes Augustine in order to contend that waging war is not always sinful, as it can be an expression of love for the innocent, the threatened, and the welfare of society. (Its neighbors in his litany of topics, of course, instructively suggest that it sometimes is sinful.) In a clear discussion of three central criteria for permissible war, Aquinas argues that if (1) a legitimate authority commands it; if (2) a just cause exists; and if (3) those declaring war intend “the advancement of good, or the avoidance of evil,” then such action can be judged justified.73 In

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  57 his replies to various hypothetical objections, Aquinas interprets the “taking of the sword” that Jesus condemns (Matt. 26:52) as a private use of violence rather than one commanded by a sovereign for the public benefit. Similarly, he reads Jesus’ command in the Sermon on the Mount not to resist an evildoer as a prohibition against self-​defense rather than a demand for the state not to use coercive force to defend the common good.74 In his presentation Aquinas both assumes and defends three of the central considerations involved in decisions about the justice and responsibilities involved in the decision to go to war. In Latin terminology that has become common since the early twentieth century, these decisions about going to war have been called the jus ad bellum facet of the tradition. The sovereign must discern a genuine just cause in order to have the right to go to war (ad bellum), thereby suspending the ordinary expectations of life in peacetime (in pacis—​to add another much less common Latin phrase to the discussion). In recent thinking, to the ad bellum category also belongs the demand that war be a last resort and success be reasonably likely.75 From the Middle Ages into the early modern period, attention was increasingly given to questions of how to act justly within war. This category of jus in bello (also modern rather than medieval terminology) is logically secondary and has historically received less consideration even though concerns about using only necessary means, not targeting noncombatants, and the like were present even in the classical tradition (as we saw with Plato and Cicero previously) and were subtly implied or assumed by thinkers such as Augustine and Aquinas.76 While usually depicted in today’s just war reasoning as a package deal,77 there is no small amount of tension between the considerations of these two categories. As Michael Walzer points out, it is possible for a state to go to war with just cause but to prosecute the war by unjust means; and it is possible for a state that went to war unjustly to fight according to the rules. It is most often the former discrepancy that rears its ugly head, as the presence of a just cause to fight (ad bellum) unleashes a consequentialist line of reasoning that can overwhelm the in bello insistence on the duty to respect noncombatant immunity: victory over the terrors of aggression is such an important end that it may seem to justify whatever terrible means are necessary.78 Though not without tension, and not originally with this terminology, this two-​pronged approach—​jus ad bellum and jus in bello,79 with clear priority to the former—​became established Catholic teaching, and was also naturally integrated into the magisterial Protestant churches, which like their Catholic

58  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence opponents/​cousins were generally eager to align themselves closely with the state provided that it advanced their theological platform. It can be seen, for example, in the Augsburg Confession’s affirmation (1530) that “it is right for Christians to hold civil office, to sit as judges, to decide matters by the imperial and other existing laws, to award just punishments, to engage in just wars, to serve as soldiers.”80 Similarly, the Westminster Confession of Faith (1647) affirms that the Christian magistrate “may lawfully now, under the new testament, wage war, upon just and necessary occasion.”81 The Second Helvetic Confession (1566) is even more comprehensive in its treatment of war. The magistrate is called to wage war when “necessary to preserve the safety of the people,” “provided he has first sought peace by all means possible.” Such actions, the confession states, are a way of serving God.82 In its articulation of the responsibilities of the magistrate’s subjects, moreover, the document affirms the call to military service: “If the public safety of the country and justice require it, and the magistrate of necessity wages war, let [the people] even lay down their life and pour out their blood for the public safety and that of the magistrate. And let them do this in the name of God willingly, bravely, and cheerfully. For he who opposes the magistrate provokes the severe wrath of God.”83 This willingness to inflict violence when called upon is seen as a requirement in a document that also recognizes the possibility of Christians suffering violence as a result of persecution.84 It should be no surprise, incidentally, that this confession harshly condemns the Anabaptists, who were only willing to do the latter.85

The Logic of Christian Just War Thinking Its beginnings in the classical world show that the canons and rules of the just war reflect what we might think of as a “natural law” rationale. The defense of the body politic, so long as it is contoured toward future peace and order, was seen as written into the rational patterning of the world. Interestingly, natural law thinking is usually thought to include the right to self-​defense; but that is something that many Christian thinkers back away from, often with the Sermon on the Mount in mind (as we saw with Aquinas). At the same time, the shape of the just war tradition within Christianity—​as we saw earlier with Augustine—​appends to general philosophical reasoning additional biblical and theological considerations.

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  59

The Biblical Text In terms of the Bible, there is the presence of divinely sanctioned warfare in the Old Testament, and God’s own righteous violence in the New Testament (e.g., the Ananias and Sapphira episode in Acts and the war of the Lamb in Revelation—​the latter, of course, can only tenuously be claimed as any kind of precedent for righteous violence, as the Lamb’s chief weapon is to be slain).86 Even more importantly, the biblical canon includes the directive for the people of faith to protect the vulnerable and marginalized. One key expression of this in both Old and New Testaments is the motif of the “widow and orphan.” Exodus 22 includes the command: “You shall not wrong or oppress a resident alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt. You shall not abuse any widow or orphan. If you do abuse them, when they cry out to me, I will surely heed their cry; my wrath will burn, and I will kill you with the sword, and your wives shall become widows and your children orphans” (vv. 21–​24; cf. Ps. 146:9). This is taken up in the book of James in more positive form: “Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world” (1:27). In situations of aggression, when peace is violated by tyranny and injustice, it is the vulnerable members of society who are most at risk. Can Christian individuals and communities participate in the state’s efforts to protect the “widow and orphan” through social order and justice? The just war tradition answers in the affirmative, and regards the right kind of warfare as one way of heeding this biblical command, perhaps not the ordinary way, but one that applies in extreme circumstances. It is of course less clear on how such work keeps its Christian participants “unstained by the world.” The Christian just war ethic also appeals to statements in the New Testament that speak of God’s ordaining and sanctioning of the state and its power of the “sword.” The most well-​known such passage is Romans 13:1–​7. There Paul exhorts his audience to “be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God” (v. 1). That this section forms part of a long exhortation on the proper conduct of Christians is shown in the reminder that “rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive its approval; for it is God’s servant for your good” (vv. 3–​4). But, Paul says, those who do

60  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence wrong—​including Christians—​should fear the state: “For the authority does not bear the sword in vain! It is the servant of God to execute wrath on the wrongdoer” (v. 4).87 In rather similar terms, the epistle of 1 Peter, as part of its appeal to Jewish believers to “conduct [themselves] honorably among the Gentiles” (2:12), tells them: “For the Lord’s sake accept the authority of every human institution, whether of the emperor as supreme, or of governors, as sent by him to punish those who do wrong and praise those who do right” (vv. 13–​14). Indeed, the passage concludes with a telling juxtaposition: “Fear God. Honor the emperor” (v. 17). For the original audiences of these letters, these passages were not necessarily intended to justify Christians serving in the civil government, with its work of bearing the sword and punishing wrongdoing. They were a reminder that Christ’s superior lordship should not be interpreted as license for Christians to act in disorderly or disobedient ways. Indeed, the verse before 1 Peter’s “Honor the emperor” command reminds its readers: “As servants of God, live as free people, yet do not use your freedom as a pretext for evil” (2:16). But as the church grew in numbers, and as people already involved in civil government or the military gravitated toward the faith, new questions arose: If the civil authority and the sword are sanctioned by God, wouldn’t Christians be allowed to serve? When those involved in that work turn to Christ, must they abandon their occupation?88 The magisterial traditions that emerged obviously answered the first question affirmatively and the second question in the negative, for otherwise why didn’t Jesus give such counsel to believing soldiers he encountered? The alternative view, which Nigel Biggar calls the “Anabaptist distinction,” wherein God ordains the sword but Christians are forbidden to bear it themselves, leads, he argues, to the “intellectually incoherent position of contradicting in principle what they depend upon in practice, and in the morally inconsistent position of keeping their own hands clean only because others are required to get theirs dirty.”89 We must remember, however, that the New Testament’s sanctioning of the state and its sword does not mean an absolute unqualified divine approval of any and all states. It is more of a general rule of thumb that reflects the place of good social order in allowing for human life and flourishing. Other scriptural voices remind us that the state and the sword can go wrong. In the Jewish world around the time of the New Testament, the

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  61 Wisdom of Solomon reflects, on the one hand, the basic message we found in Romans and 1 Peter: Listen therefore, O kings, and understand; learn, O judges of the ends of the earth. . . . For your dominion was given you from the Lord, and your sovereignty from the Most High. (6:1, 3)

On the other hand, it appends a warning to those rulers: He will search out your works and inquire into your plans. Because as servants of his kingdom you did not rule rightly, . . . he will come upon you terribly and swiftly, because severe judgment falls on those in high places. (vv. 3–​5)

Similarly, we see that Paul, though generally sanctioning the state and its authority, as in Romans 13, was himself willing to disobey the civil authorities (as seen in 2 Cor. 11:23–​33), was imprisoned multiple times, and according to tradition was put to death by the Romans. His willingness to do so is in fact consistent with what we might think of as the subtle unspoken counterpoint of Romans 13 itself: when rulers become a terror to good conduct; when they cease to function as God’s servant for good; when the sword becomes a tool for purposes other than punishing grave wrongdoing, then what God has in a general sense ordained has gone astray. Accordingly, the New Testament canon also gives us a vision of the unjust state as tyrant in Revelation 13’s symbolic representation of the oppressive Roman Empire of its day as the beast. In short, the biblical canon as a whole generally sanctions the state but recognizes that it can and does go wrong. Obedience to and even participation in the offices of the state may be appropriate for Christians, but may have to be withheld depending on the circumstances. In the words of Peter and the other apostles in Acts 5:29, words that have been echoed on many a Christian martyr’s lips, “We must obey God rather than any human authorities.” The just war tradition acknowledges precisely this tension when it affirms the possibility of justified violence degenerating into unjustified and purely sinful violence, or a just cause being pursued with unjust means, and so forth.

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Sin in the World An additional theological factor in the logic of the just war tradition is one that we already encountered with Augustine, the nature and reality of sin in the world. The church participates in the city of God, while also being subject to the conditions of the city of the world. Over against the optimism of nineteenth-​and twentieth-​century liberal Protestantism—​which proclaimed pacifism as the solution to aggression and war in the world—​ Reinhold Niebuhr channeled the vision of Augustine in a famous essay titled “Why the Christian Church is Not Pacifist.” There Niebuhr argued that liberal Christian pacifism—​to be distinguished, in his view, from traditional Anabaptist forms of pacifism90—​is heretical in two ways. Its doctrinal problem is its amnesia regarding the doctrine of sin, which produces violence and aggression and threatens order and flourishing in the world. Its related experiential heresy is the fact that it is out of touch with the actual lived realities of the world, which include obvious tyranny that needs to be resisted through the judicious use of force.91 It is necessary, Niebuhr writes, to make “concessions to the fact that sinful man must achieve tentative harmonies of life with life which are less than the best,” including the waging of war.92 For Niebuhr, the waging of war for justice and restored order requires attentiveness to our own failings and complicity. Though in some ways his position differs from that of Niebuhr, Nigel Biggar captures this particular point aptly: As a Christian the just warrior cannot stand to the unjust perpetrator as clean to unclean, righteous to unrighteous, good to evil. He can only stand as one sinful creature to another. Even the enemy partakes of an equal dignity that deserves respect. According to the Christian view, therefore, cleansing the world of wickedness cannot be the aim of just war, since wickedness lies within as well as without, here as well as there. Just war is only ever a police action, never a crusade—​always proximate, never ultimate.93

Put back into Augustine’s terms, drawing upon some of the lamentable and corrupted ways of the world is occasionally needed, even by Christians, as the church testifies in its limited and provisional way, to the city of God. This shall be a major theme in Chapters 5 through 7.

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Christian Love Finally, as intimated in Augustine, there is the defense of just war based on the command of Christian love. For example, foundational to Paul Ramsey’s examination and defense of the just war ethic is the affirmation that just war convictions at their best are an expression of the Christian commitment to love, especially those most vulnerable to aggression and tyranny: The western theory of the just war originated, not primarily from considerations of abstract or “natural” justice, but from the interior of the ethics of Christian love. . . . While Jesus taught that a disciple in his own case should turn the other cheek, he did not enjoin that his disciples should lift up the face of another oppressed man for him to be struck again on his other cheek. It is no part of the work of charity to allow this to continue to happen. Instead, it is the work of love and mercy to deliver as many as possible of God’s children from tyranny, and to protect from oppression, if one can, as many of those for whom Christ died as it may be possible to save. When choice must be made between the perpetrator of injustice and the many victims of it, the latter may and should be preferred—​even if effectively to do so would require the use of armed force against some evil power. This is what I mean by saying that the justice of sometimes resorting to armed conflict originated in the interior of the ethics of Christian love.94

Ramsey suggests that just war is simply a “change in tactics” for Christian love.95 While the previous quotation relates love to jus ad bellum, Ramsey also argues that the genesis of noncombatant immunity (as the centerpiece of jus in bello) was a “creation of the Christian love ethic . . . and not merely the result of an independent natural-​law reason.”96 To be sure, Ramsey’s is a generous read of the distinctively Christian shape and intent of just war principles. Johnson, for example, suggests that Ramsey’s approach to the issue “exaggerated” the connection with Augustine’s view of Christian love.97 In awareness of the incredulity of some to such a claim, Ramsey himself observes that what was originally motivated by Christian love earlier in the tradition was eventually diluted down to natural justice.98 For that reason, today the role of Christian love may be considerably less apparent than in the past. While that may be true, Biggar persuasively contends that Christian just war reasoning sees justified violence as an expression of love toward the victims of aggression (in seeking to save them) and even the enemy (by

64  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence demonstrating restraint in the use of violence). Both are our neighbors, whom we are called to love.99 It is here that the concept of “double effect” is crucial. With long roots in just war thinking, the notion suggests that unfortunate evil effects in a course of action are tolerable if they are unintended (even if expected and foreseen) effects of a good end that is intended in that course of action. Violence and killing are not the aim, but a loving defense of the vulnerable and a peaceable and orderly society. In his explanation of this element of just war thinking, Biggar emphasizes that the principle of double effect does not present a blank check for any destructive means to a positive end. The unintended negative effects must not be caused “needlessly,” “in vain,” or “disproportionately.”100 Attitudinally, reluctance should characterize the unfortunate side of the double effect, a reluctance whose deepest well may be Christian love for others, even for a neighbor who is currently also enemy.101

Criticisms of Christian Just War Thinking The Teachings of Jesus The most potent argument against the just war approach has already appeared in Chapter 2: the contention that Jesus’ teaching, especially as concentrated in the Sermon on the Mount, and his demeanor in both life and death, especially in his self-​sacrificial passion and cross, leave no room for his disciples to employ the sword, baton, gun, or cruise missile. Expressing this criticism, Robert Emmet Meagher states that Ambrose has to “bracket and bypass” the New Testament’s gospel of peace, and that Augustine is forced to allegorize and spiritualize the Sermon on the Mount, reducing it to “right intention” in fighting.102 It is worth repeating the summary point from Richard Hays that was quoted in the previous chapter: “From Matthew to Revelation we find a consistent witness against violence and a calling to the community to follow the example of Jesus in accepting suffering rather than inflicting it.”103 As the force of this challenge will follow us through the rest of this book (especially in Chapter 5), here it must simply be noted.

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Just War Slippage In addition to a forthrightly pacifist critique, there is also an important internal and historical critique of the just war tradition—​that history gives scant evidence of this moral tradition in practice embodying its own principles and ideals. One of the most potent versions of this critique comes from John Howard Yoder, himself a pacifist who believed that a just war tradition that abided by its own convictions would be a natural ally of Christian pacifists.104 With regard to in bello considerations, Yoder’s analysis of the magisterial Christian tradition detects a slippage in just war history, where less and less restraint, more and more destructive weapons, have been allowed. On the ad bellum side, he contends that it is difficult to find situations where just war principles have led a Christian state or leader to decide not to use military force.105 Meagher asserts the case even more strongly, that the just war tradition’s stated presumption against war quickly became a “formula for enablement, not deterrence.”106 Yoder does not reflect at length upon Christian soldiers electing to do or not do certain things in battle due to their moorings in Christian just war teaching. The phenomenon of “selective conscientious objection,” while illegal in many countries, including the United States, shows that it is an important consideration. In Yoder’s view, the only way the credibility of the just war tradition can be demonstrated is if it functions to stop and restrain fighting in situations where victory could only be achieved through unjust methods. Furthermore, Yoder argues, the credibility of the “last resort” criterion of just war requires constant, diligent, and proactive work for justice and peace in the world that the magisterial traditions have seldom displayed alongside their readiness for war.107 We will return to Yoder’s challenge—​placed under the lens of martyrdom—​in the final chapter of this book.

Christian Martyr Intuitions A third cautionary tale about the just war tradition emerges from what we might think of as some of the intuitions or “instincts” of the martyr theology of the Christian church. We must again ponder the case of Salvadoran priest Father Barrera (“Neto”) from Chapter 1, who despite his calling as priest picked up a gun in an attempt to protect and advance the cause of the poor and repressed people of El Salvador. He was killed in the course of fighting,

66  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence it appears with right intention, for a just cause,108 and like any soldier it may be possible to speak of the “sacrifice” he made in risking his life for those in need. Yet even a sympathetic chronicler like Erdozaín distinguishes Neto’s death from that of Archbishop Romero, clearly applying the term “martyr” to the latter and only vaguely using some of its imagery for the former. Both Romero and Neto were killed for the same cause—​a defense of the poor and vulnerable; both were killed for defending the widow and the orphan; both were maligned by the powers of injustice and oppression that they opposed; both were guided by their Christian commitment. Aside from Romero’s greater fame and publicity due to his office of archbishop, the main difference between the two—​admittedly, a significant one—​is that Neto used violence to defend the people.109 He was killed while fighting. If that is the principal reason why Romero has been broadly hailed (and eventually canonized) as a martyr and Neto has not, then it poses serious questions regarding the soundness of the just war tradition. If martyrdom is an argument—​from extreme circumstances—​about what the Christian life should look like, and the deployment of violence removes a Christian from consideration as a martyr, then it becomes difficult to see how even “justified” violence could be defended as consistent with the Christian life. Admittedly, the complexity of the Neto/​Romero comparison is increased by the fact that they were both priests, which in Catholic ordination theology means there are certain actions and methods not available to them that may be available to Christians in other walks of life—​such as soldier or magistrate. The priest is called to a higher holiness than the layperson.110 And in Catholic saint theology there is usually a sense that saints (of which martyrs are the highest echelon) operate at an even more elevated plane of Christian existence. Perhaps from that angle, the use of violence—​drawing, as it does, upon the evil of the world, even for a justifiable end—​is inconsistent with the higher level of sanctity, even if such use of violent means is not inherently inconsistent with Christian faith (given just war teaching). Such elements of the traditional Catholic theology of sainthood, however, don’t apply as strongly or in quite the same way when a Protestant perspective is applied to the comparison. From that standpoint, sanctity is possible and expected for all Christians, regardless of their station or occupation, including jobs that require the “sword.” Even though he was a pastor, it is telling that Dietrich Bonhoeffer has been widely lauded as a martyr for his death resulting from an indirect contribution to a plot to kill Hitler.111 From a Protestant view of sainthood, declaring a person a martyr is more clearly a way of naming

The Just War and the Horizon of Martyrdom  67 something about the expectations for all Christians by showing how those expectations were met in the drama of one person’s life. Conversely, if something like fighting is legitimate for Christians under some circumstances, then it seems like martyrdom should be a possibility there. If not, then perhaps it indicates something Christianly amiss in the magisterial church’s just war convictions. We shall return to these tangles in later chapters. Though not recognized in the Neto situation, some strains of saint and martyr reflection—​ in both Catholicism and Protestantism—​ suggest a Christian awareness of the situatedness of the saints in the dynamics and ambiguities of the world, including association with violence. Perhaps, the tradition has sometimes intimated, the soldier and magistrate can be martyred while wielding the sword. The next chapter explores some historic examples that show the complexity of this possibility.

4 Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs In the Western Christian tradition there is in fact ample precedent for lauding as martyrs and saints Christians whose lives involved the use of violence. The Crusades, for example, gave rise to a relatively new form of martyrological reflection. Colin Morris shows how, while a few figures were portrayed as “warrior-​martyrs” in the earlier Middle Ages, it was primarily during the time of the First Crusade around the turn of the twelfth century that the prospect of a true soldier martyr—​one martyred while fighting—​grows in significance.1 Such a promise of martyrdom is said to have been given by Pope Urban II in his call of the Crusade (with the Maccabees as antecedent), which, as quoted much later on, states that “it is also justly granted you, Christian soldiers, to defend the liberty of your country by armed endeavors. . . . We now hold out to you wars which contain the glorious reward of martyrdom.”2 Morris, however, notes that this promise of martyrdom is not present in the earliest accounts of the pope’s speech.3 Nevertheless, in this context of holy war, Morris writes, “The armies were thus no longer performing their normal duties to their secular lord, and the soldiers needed a definition of their standing and a promise of spiritual reward.”4 He gives examples of how the imagery used in descriptions of those who died in battle resembles the language and metaphors of classic Christian martyr literature, even though the actual term “martyr” is still rather sparingly used.5 (We perhaps have here a parallel with Erdozaín’s account of Neto, which uses the imagery of martyrdom but not the term.) In one of the earliest accounts of the Crusade, the Gesta Francorum, the term “martyr” is applied to those crusaders who were captured and killed after refusing to give up the faith under pressure from their captors, as well as those who died on the battlefield.6 Within a couple of decades of the Crusade, a new species of soldier-​ monk had been founded, the Knights Templar. As they were fighting for Christendom, Bernard of Clairveaux was happy to apply the language of martyrdom to them: “March forth confidently then, you knights, and with Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0005

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  69 a stalwart heart repel the foes of the cross of Christ. . . . How gloriously victors return from battle! How blessedly martyrs die in battle!”7 In contrast to “worldly” knights, whose battle places them under risk of mortal sin, the “knights of Christ” are assured of heaven when they fall in battle.8 Although with “elements of hesitation,” Morris summarizes, “it seems to have been the First Crusade which inserted the idea [of battle heroes as martyrs] into the common stock of Western thought.”9 Once the imagery of martyrdom was integrated into the language of warfare, even if originally in the context of a medieval religious or holy war, it has remained there fairly resiliently, even in wars ostensibly waged for justice. As we have seen, a crisp “just war” versus “holy war” distinction has proven quite difficult to maintain, with war waged putatively for justice often marketed as a holy effort for true religion, and war for true religion assumed to have justice inherently on its side.10 What Rahner said about religious wars being complicated by secular motives (see Chapter 1) can also be inverted: secular/​ just wars are complicated by religious motives.11 Harry Stout, for example, has chronicled how religious rhetoric, including the language of sacrifice and martyrdom, permeated the American Civil War, even while both North and South disregarded many of the just war restraints—​especially noncombatant immunity—​due in part to each side’s sense of a transcendent divine sanction for their cause.12 Philip Jenkins has made a similar claim regarding World War I.13 In short, while the Enlightenment’s eventual separation of church and state makes a clearer distinction possible between just war and holy war than was possible in the aftermath of the Crusades, these modern conflicts show that the two still easily blur together. In fact, James Turner Johnson observes that much of modern “secular” war has been energized by sweeping universal ideals that are almost religious in their flavor and function.14 Perhaps because of the blurring, martyr claims are easier to apply, but perhaps because of that, they are all the more disconcerting. In all of these cases, it is easy to be skeptical about the language of martyrdom being used too quickly in relation to conflicts that were mainly political and secular in nature, or causes that were troubling, or ways of fighting that later generations have judged to be unrighteous or unjust. With this uneasiness in mind, let us look at a variety of historic examples from magisterial Christianity of associations between the “sword” on the one hand, and sainthood and martyrdom on the other.

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Soldiers as Martyrs and Saints in the Early Church We have already encountered the soldier martyr trope from early Christian writing. This genre in patristic martyrology shows a pull in two different directions for the early church. Implicitly, it shows the growing influence of the Christian church in the third and early fourth centuries—​more and more Christians in the army, that central institution of Roman imperial might, as well as more and more converts coming from the army—​which anticipates the coming Constantinian change of fortunes. But the more direct point that these texts show is the political tension between Christian allegiance and full commitment to the pagan Roman state, which could be demanded in symbolic form in the case of soldiers. The same ambiguity we observed in previous chapters in relation to Marinus and Julius is visible in stories such as the Acts of Marcellus. In this text we encounter the story—​one with significant historical difficulties—​of a very late third-​century Christian who had been serving for quite some time as a soldier, perhaps with growing hesitations. His juggling of loyalties finally reaches a tipping point. Marcellus refuses to participate in the pagan rituals surrounding the emperor’s birthday: “I am a soldier of Jesus Christ, the eternal king. From now I cease to serve your emperors and I despise the worship of your gods of wood and stone, for they are deaf and dumb images.”15 He eventually arrives at an even more sweeping conclusion: “It is not fitting that a Christian, who fights for Christ his Lord, should fight for the armies of this world.”16 The implication: faith is incompatible with fighting through worldly means, presumably including violence, even though Marcellus had previously experimented with their compatibility. He is then executed, the narrator states, leaving the world as “a glorious martyr.”17 The account of a young man named Maximilian is another noteworthy case in point. In the late third century he was being recommended for service in the army, but he resists, saying, “I cannot serve because I am a Christian.”18 He is even presented with the names of other soldiers who are Christians, men who had presumably found a way to reconcile the countervailing obligations involved in such service. Maximilian, however, refuses the seal of military service, for he already bears, in his baptism, “the seal of Christ who is my God.”19 He is executed for “disloyally” spurning the military oaths. While in both of these stories the conclusion is stated in a way that may appear to oppose violence itself to Christian obligations, as with Marinus and Julius the main catalyst is the liturgical dimensions of Roman military life.20

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  71 The dynamics involved in these stories of soldier martyrs from the patristic period are consistent with the narrative usually told about the development of Christian stances on the use of violence. In contrast to the anti-​sword perspective of Tertullian and the earliest martyrs, for whom spiritual weapons and suffering itself were the only legitimate means of “fighting,” by the turn of the fourth century, nearing the beginnings of Christendom and the rise of Constantine, it was becoming possible to be both a Christian and a soldier, apparently without undue existential or spiritual discomfort. The usual narrative is one of spiritual decline, while another possibility, as we have seen in the previous chapter, is that it was a natural result of the Christian church settling into its sense of responsibility in and for the world. If we are to take the Maximilian text at its word, numerous other Christians were serving in the military (whether they joined as Christians or converted afterward is not indicated; whether they had misgivings is also not said). Similarly, when military service was recognized as inconsistent with Christian faith, it was not usually because of the use (or threat) of violence attached to the job of a soldier, but because the religious duties latent in Roman military service rose to the surface in a specific situation and were suddenly required of these Christian soldiers.21 Whether or not anything approximating a just war line of thinking about appropriate forms of fighting was explicitly present in the mindset of these soldiers is hard to know, but their decisions are consistent with the beginnings of a magisterial expression of the faith in which adherence to a primitive just war ethic becomes a key characteristic. We glimpse this shift in the famous story of Martin, bishop of Tours, in the last third of the fourth century, who is regarded as a saint and confessor by the Catholic Church. The life of Martin written by his almost worshipful admirer Sulpicius Severus is one of the classics of early hagiography. While some of the details that Severus provides about Martin invite skepticism, his account was influential in creating the popular and ecclesial portrait of Saint Martin.22 Furthermore, his account is an intriguing reflection on the soldier occupation at a time when magisterial Christianity was taking root. Severus stresses that he provides his account of Martin as an example to others of a “most holy man,” which will hopefully spur his readers to “the pursuit of true knowledge, and heavenly warfare, and divine virtue.”23 In his younger years, Martin was involved in the Roman military, becoming part of the imperial guard of (the Christian) Constantine and (the pagan) Julian against his will.24 However, Severus states that “almost from his earliest years, the holy infancy of the illustrious boy aspired rather to the service of God.”25

72  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence After taking the military oath, Martin nevertheless displayed his piety and humility by contenting himself with just one servant and by the fact that, even though he was not yet baptized and therefore “not yet made a new creature in Christ,” “he kept completely free from those vices in which [soldiers] become too frequently involved.” In short, “Even at that date, he was regarded not so much as being a soldier as a monk.”26 After experiencing an appearance of Christ in a dream, an epiphany connected to Martin’s care for a poor person, he was baptized. Yet he stayed on as a soldier for two more years out of allegiance to his tribune, who implored him to serve out the rest of his term.27 Here we have moved a long way from Tertullian’s rejection of military service after the seal of baptism. But eventually, when Martin had an opportunity to receive a donative from Julian (the so-​called Apostate) for his military service, on the eve of a crucial battle he declares his intention to leave the military: “Hitherto I have served you as a soldier: allow me now to become a soldier to God: let the man who is to serve thee receive thy donative: I am the soldier of Christ: it is not lawful for me to fight.” As Severus tells the story, when Emperor Julian began to rage against Martin, accusing him of cowardice, Martin offered to stand without weapons at the front line of an impending battle “and in the name of the Lord Jesus, protected by the sign of the cross, and not by shield or helmet, I will safely penetrate the ranks of the enemy.”28 He is saved from this demonstration of his faith’s militancy and resolve by the enemy’s surrender before the battle could begin, a turn of events that Severus naturally attributes to Martin’s saintly character, as well as to Christ’s desire for Rome to have a victory without bloodshed. Among the notable features of this account is Martin’s contrasting of his new calling to be a “soldier of Christ” with his old (albeit putatively undesired) calling to be a soldier of Rome, as well as his statement that “it is not lawful” for him to fight. But as with earlier soldier martyrs such as Maximilian, Julius, and Marcellus, the reasons are hazy.29 Why did it take two years from his baptism for him to renounce his military profession? Was it because a pagan emperor was now in charge? Would the renunciation have been unnecessary if, say, Emperor Theodosius I (who later established Christianity as the official Roman religion) had been in power? Was the “unlawfulness” of fighting something that would apply to all Christians, or did this apply only to Martin due to his personal sense of calling to priesthood and asceticism?30 If it were the former, one might expect Severus to provide us with quotations of or allusions to, say, the Sermon on the Mount, as it would be the

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  73 most obvious text from which to draw. But such express references are absent, although they may possibly be implied, ever so subtly, by his confident speculations about Christ’s reasons for belaying the battle. Do we glimpse in Severus our historian/​hagiographer/​theologian some vague misgivings about the confluence of the military life and Christian life, misgivings that wouldn’t be surprising given the young age of Christendom? This last interpretation appears unlikely in view of Martin’s happy willingness, later in his career as a bishop, when not performing miracles, resuscitations, and exorcisms, to offer one of the later (Christian) emperors a bold prediction about a future military victory (which, unfortunately for that emperor, included the prognostication that he would shortly thereafter be killed). Such episodes suggest that neither Severus nor Martin saw a fundamental inconsistency between the emperor’s professed faith and his waging of war.31 Thus it seems that the “not lawful” line earlier on Martin’s lips is best seen as a reference to Martin’s own priestly vocation rather than a statement about the basic requirements of Christian faith.32 Unsurprisingly, from the magisterial point of view, Martin’s former life as a soldier and his blessing upon the emperor’s battles are not held against his sainthood. It appears that we are a considerable distance from the earlier Tertullian’s or the later Anabaptists’ conviction that there is no place for violence in the life or work of the Christian. Martin’s participation in the military, even as a Christian, is not seen as inconsistent with his sainthood. While Martin does not die as a martyr, the soldier martyrs mentioned earlier do. And their military service does not prevent their acclaim as martyrs. In any case, we are still a long way from Neto and this book’s central question, as none of the soldier martyrs I have discussed dies while fighting. If anything, Marinus, Julius, Marcellus, and Maximilian are killed because they choose to stop fighting, albeit probably due to the religious elements more than the violence involved in fighting. And Martin’s sainthood is mainly associated with his departure from the military life for a different calling on a higher plane of spirituality.

Saints, Martyrs, and the Institutions of Medieval Christendom It is in later centuries that we encounter additional saints and martyrs whose use or sanctioning of violence is more directly linked to their status of

74  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence holiness, whether as saint or martyr. One of these is the beloved and complex figure of Joan of Arc, the young French peasant burned at the stake in 1431 for heresy by English church authorities amid a struggle between the thrones of France and England. Joan was persecuted partly for political reasons, and partly due to the way the messages she received from God through “her voices” (Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret) led her, an illiterate peasant teenager, to resist ecclesiastical authority. Of course, part of what initially made Joan famous was her place, dressed as a man, at the front of the French armies fighting against the English. Though condemned by church officials, she was later named by the pope (in the early twentieth century) to be the patron saint of France. Though a saint (as a virgin), the Catholic Church does not regard her formally as a martyr. Informally and popularly, however, she has long been acclaimed a martyr. We see this in some of the final words of Paul Doncoeur’s mid-​twentieth-​century retelling of Joan’s life: “She was burned piteously and as a great martyr, which was a wondrous cruelty.”33 The reconciliation between certain forms of violence and the honor of sainthood and martyrdom is visible both in the medieval context of Joan’s life and in Doncoeur’s modern lauding of the constancy of her faith in life and death. From neither perspective is it held against her that she participated in battle at a crucial moment in her story of sainthood, even if it was not battle that ultimately killed her. Two centuries before Joan, another instructive French example is the thirteenth-​century king Louis IX, whose status as saint of the Catholic Church is not contravened by his participation in the Seventh and Eighth Crusades. Louis is celebrated as saintly king and confessor in the Catholic Church’s Roman Martyrology for his “holiness of life and glorious miracles.”34 Jacques Douillet holds Louis up as one of his prototypical examples of Christian sainthood, alongside other notables such as Perpetua and Felicitas, Francis of Assisi, and Teresa of Avila. In Douillet’s words, Louis “was everything good that we understand by the term ‘knightly.’ ”35 What Douillet emphasizes, actually, as he draws from John of Joinville’s account of Louis, is his military prowess and grandeur. It is the self-​sacrificial nature precisely of his military leadership—​remaining in Palestine during the Seventh Crusade rather than returning to France, where his kingdom was in jeopardy—​that Douillet the hagiographer highlights.36 In addition, of course, Douillet describes the prayerful piety of the king, his commitment to caring for the poor, and even his work caring for the sick in hospitals that he had built. “Throughout his reign he labored for justice in his kingdom and to maintain peace among

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  75 Christian princes.”37 Aside from a genuine and devoted piety, what Douillet and other interpreters emphasize regarding Louis is that he actually was what all kings should be, including the righteous way that he wielded the state’s power of the sword. Louis had, in the words of Edward and Lorna Mornin, “a reputation for chivalry, justice and fair dealing, and he appears to have genuinely cared for the welfare of his subjects.”38 It is as if Louis is regarded so highly not only because of his own saintliness, but because his way of being king contrasts markedly with so many princes in the Middle Ages—​a king and knight genuinely concerned for justice and those suffering misfortune. In short, if we set aside the miracles he is associated with, he as chief sword-​bearer of his nation is acclaimed a saint because he lived as he ought to have lived—​with piety, chivalry, and justice. Louis the saint fits well into magisterial Christianity because no impression is given that his military activities were out of keeping with his saintly character. As king and knight he employed and commanded violence, albeit toward what was seen at the time as a holy end, the protection of Christians and the conversion of the “infidel.” (We ought not to let today’s skepticism regarding the Crusades, even with the complicated political and economic motives entangled with religious reasons for fighting, however misguided in retrospect, blind us to the genuine faith that spurred on many of the crusaders, including Louis.)39 Though we don’t have here a just war mindset in its pure form, but rather its holy war cousin, we are in the broad neighborhood of Christianity’s toleration of violence for appropriate reasons and with appropriate means. And in this particular context, no insuperable conflict is presented between sainthood and the military life. We can only surmise that had Louis been killed on the battlefield for Christianity or in defense of the justice of his kingdom, the notion of martyrdom would have been attractive to those telling his tale. In the Middle Ages, martyrdom was in the pious waters of Christendom. Violent encounters with Islam, whether in war or otherwise, produced a few martyr claims. They were, however, comparatively rare. Nonetheless, the memories of earlier martyrs were nurtured through shrines and relics. And even in its literal absence, martyrdom was a key motif for Christian spirituality. Suffering in life—​especially the voluntary suffering of the ascetic—​was likened to martyrdom.40 Bernard of Clairvaux, for example, distinguishes in one of his sermons between three types of martyrdom: (1) that which involves both “will” and “deed” (with Stephen in the book of Acts as his paradigm); (2) that which involves only the “deed” (with the Holy Innocents of

76  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Matthew’s nativity story as paradigm); and (3) that which involves the “will” without the actual “deed” of martyrdom (with John the apostle as his paradigm). While Stephen’s or Peter’s following of Jesus required they “imitate his passion,” John followed “not so much with physical steps as with an unwavering love of ready devotion.”41 That lived devotion, Bernard argues, is a kind of martyrdom. In another sermon, this one on the notion and practice of confession, especially in the monastic life, Bernard likens the “mortification of the flesh” through “abstaining from what is permitted” to a “long-​ lasting martyrdom.”42 Later in the sermon he uses actual martyrdom as the crucial example of perseverance in the life of confession.43 Martyrdom also becomes a tool within the medieval world of Christian states and their political machinations. This inevitably introduces additional shades of gray to the palette of martyrdom. About a century before Louis, but across the English Channel, a paradigm that became a touchstone for medieval English piety is Archbishop Thomas à Becket of Canterbury. Killed in 1170 at the altar of his cathedral amid a quarrel with King Henry II that included disagreement regarding the respective rights of church and state over the appointment of clergy, Thomas was immediately acclaimed a martyr at the popular level, and miracles were quickly experienced through his relics.44 Danna Piroyansky describes Becket as “the model of the political martyr.”45 As such, he is the prototype of other deaths in late-​medieval England that were acclaimed as martyrdom yet resulted “as a consequence of their effort and aspiration to command political power.”46 One such death, less famous than Becket’s “Murder in the Cathedral,”47 but dependent upon it for its meaning, was that of Richard Scrope, the archbishop of York, whose story is especially germane to our theme of violence and martyrdom. The late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries saw a power struggle between the Lancastrian and Yorkist houses in England. A key year in that protracted conflict was 1399, when Henry of Lancaster overthrew the Yorkist Richard II, becoming King Henry IV. Of the multiple rebellions that took place against Henry, one of the most important for the north of England occurred in 1405. A key leader of the uprising was Archbishop Scrope, who preached about the poverty that afflicted the people of York due to the new king’s taxation policy and marched at the head of the throng of peasants.48 Scrope was apparently also concerned—​in the mold of Becket, the martyr of Canterbury—​with the rights of the church in relation to the crown, especially taxation of clergy. After being arrested and executed in a field outside of York, the archbishop was quite naturally regarded by many people in York

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  77 as a martyr, and a shrine was set up in York Minster Cathedral that quickly began to witness miracles.49 A window depicting Scrope in a saintly light still hangs high in the cathedral, albeit a window (we must add) funded by his nephew.50 Scrope’s actions were, to be sure, political. But as mentioned previously, that does not mean that they were areligious. As Piroyansky states, we must avoid the temptation to posit “too great a separation between political affairs and religious conduct” in medieval England, as such a separation did not exist.51 Scrope is said to have appealed to religious motives in his participation in the rebellion,52 and the texts and imagery that emerged surrounding his cult emphasized the religious dimension of things, even in some cases overlooking his part in the rebellion.53 He was portrayed as a shepherd of his flock, “responsible for the souls in his care, protector of their rights and leader in protest, and intercessor before God.”54 Piroyansky observes that “despite the existence of different texts discussing Scrope’s political agenda, these have not entered the liturgy, which distanced itself from the political aspects of the affair. The composers of prayers and hagiographies chose instead . . . to highlight the more symbolic and traditional aspects of Scrope’s martyrdom and sanctity—​his role as pastor, his suffering and his virtues.”55 Be that as it may, the main forces at play were indeed political, which helps us to make sense of the fact that Scrope was never canonized by the Catholic Church.56 York Minster, still a working church in the Church of England, has only a sober sign next to Scrope’s tomb: “Remember Archbishop Scrope and all those who suffer political persecution.” However, is his death really best captured by the label of political martyrdom, as Piroyansky suggests? That term may actually be misleading in today’s climate, as we easily assume the very separation between church and state that Piroyansky reminds us did not exist in the late medieval world. How should we weigh the balance between the political and religious dimensions, as the two interpenetrated one another? In Scrope’s case, the situation is complicated by his place at the front not only of an army, but of a revolt against the king (though a king not universally recognized as the legitimate occupant of the throne). It is instructive that the same Church of England that today shows such restraint in its cathedral’s interpretation of Scrope—​eschewing the term “martyr” despite the fact that medieval contemporaries applied it to the dead bishop—​has placed Dietrich Bonhoeffer front and center above the west door at Westminster Abbey as a martyr for his minor role in a plot to kill the tyrant Hitler.

78  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence

Magistrate Martyrs in the Era of Reformation The case of King Louis reminds us that this book’s focus on soldiers and war is merely a way into the issue of Christian faith and violence in a broader sense. It is a convenient way to enter into the topic because of the tradition’s extensive moral reflection on the topic. Yet the issue of the violence of the sword also includes, perhaps even more significantly, other governmental authorities who command and superintend the state’s violence, directing others who employed violence on their behalf, to say nothing of the law enforcement officer, bearing the sword day in, day out in communities of people going about their regular business. There are numerous instances in which Christian magistrates (that is, government authorities) have come to be regarded by their communities as martyrs. Two such men come from opposite sides of the Reformation in England. Thomas More is one of the most beloved of the Reformation’s Catholic martyrs for his willingness to hold steadily to his convictions and conscience against King Henry VIII. Douillet employs More as one of his select few examples of sainthood, in the process emphasizing his fine mind, devotion to family, good character, and willingness to accept death cheerfully in 1535 rather than violate his conscience by affirming what he, as a Catholic, regarded as King Henry’s illegitimate claim to spiritual supremacy over the Church in England. Douillet likens More’s concern for his appearance at execution to Perpetua’s efforts to keep her hair from becoming unkempt, lest the spectators think that she was mourning her impending death.57 Similarly, one of his earliest biographers, Nicholas Harpsfield, links More’s martyrdom with the experience of the early church. Harpsfield observes that More sent a piece of gold to his executioner, just like Cyprian long before.58 And Harpsfield labors to demonstrate that More’s death for the unity of the Catholic Church is just as legitimate a martyrdom as that of those, such as Dionysius of Alexandria, who died because they refused to sacrifice to idols.59 In the conclusion to his book, Harpsfield asserts that More is actually the most significant of the three English martyrs named Thomas (Thomas of Dover and Thomas à Becket being the others), since he was resisting a king who was usurping ecclesial supremacy. In other words, he wasn’t just resisting persecution of the church, but from a Catholic perspective resisting the very undoing of the church.60 In taking this theological stand of conscience, More of course shows great faith and courage. Harpsfield emphasizes the constancy of More by

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  79 contrasting him with Adam: the latter could be tempted by Eve, but More resisted his wife’s temptations to compromise, thus making him more like Job, who refused his wife’s counsel to curse God and die.61 The Job comparison is a recurring theme for Harpsfield, as he regards More to exemplify the suffering and vilified victim who in the end is judged righteous by God.62 His witness to Catholic truth came at great cost. When leaving his family (knowing that he would be imprisoned), More is sad for some moments but then finds that “the love he had to God wrought in him so effectually that it conquered all his carnal affections utterly from his wife and children, whom he most dearly loved.”63 As such, Harpsfield ends his account with a theological flourish, bundling together More with his martyr namesake, Thomas à Becket of Canterbury: “Both ever after carried, though not the material Cross, yet the very true Cross of Christ, by tribulation, to the time, and of all at the time, of their glorious passion.”64 While More is portrayed by Catholic sources as the paragon of virtue—​ even as the “blessed Protomartyr of all the laity for the preservation of the unity of Christ’s Church,”65 he is trenchantly criticized by an author like the Protestant John Foxe, given that in his role as chancellor of England More played a role in the trials of a number of Protestants. In Foxe’s partisan view, More was a perjurious, cruel, and vindictive man, especially in his role interrogating Protestants suspected of heresy before King Henry’s reformation and directing the state’s sword against them.66 Such Protestant critics from that period say little about the virtue and courage of More’s life, or the constancy and willingness of his death, which are emphasized by Catholic sources. And Catholic accounts tend to reprise his persistent battles against heresy but not his likely involvement in the theological policing and judicial violence that was common in later Christendom, including executions of heretics. For Foxe, instead of the kind, cheerful, and thoughtful humanist More, we have the More who “rails” against Protestants, whose arguments are characterized in Foxe’s marginalia as “fantasies,” in short “a man so blinded in the zeal of popery, so deadly set against the one side, and so partially affectionate unto the other, that in them whom he favoureth he can see nothing but all fair roses and sweet virtue; in the other which he hateth, there is never a thing can please his fantasy, but all is as black as pitch, vice, abomination, heresy, and folly, whatsoever they do, or intend to do.”67 In relation to his critique of Catholicism generally and the papacy as its central symbol, Foxe makes a crucial distinction between godly rulers and ungodly rulers. The church is

80  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence called to resist the latter, since ungodly rulers—​in league with the pope and the false church—​work against true doctrine and persecute true Christians. But the church is called to obey godly government, to work in and for the good state, as it promotes true religion. Thus Foxe’s polemic against Thomas More—​and his denial to him of the title of martyr—​has nothing directly to do with More’s association with the “sword,” but everything to do with his earnest defense of Catholic teaching and his role in the examinations and executions of some Protestant martyrs. In the case of John Frith, Foxe speaks of More’s “great hatred and deadly pursuit” as he “persecuted [Frith] both by land and sea, besetting all the ways and havens, yea, and promising great rewards, if any man could bring him any news or tidings of him.”68 In the case of Richard Bayfield, Foxe claims that after More had “brought this good man to his end,” he continued to search for reasons to “rase out all good memory of [Bayfield’s] name and fame.”69 Though Foxe portrays More as heartless, and holds him responsible for Protestant deaths, it is not the latter’s being implicated in violence per se that indicts him, but his use of it for the wrong theological and confessional cause. It is not the sword per se, but the confessional ends to which it is put. Obviously, then, Foxe’s account of More’s own eventual execution for treason does not use the language of martyrdom, but rather portrays it as the deserved death of a slanderous persecutor and traitor. The state’s violence—​here for treason rather than heresy—​is not something that Foxe objects to. The Protestant Thomas Cromwell, who became chief minister to the king later in Henry’s reign, is of course painted by Foxe with the lily-​whitest of brushes, with Cromwell’s role in bringing More to the stake not even mentioned. When Cromwell eventually runs afoul of Henry and is himself executed for treason, Foxe narrates his commending his soul to the Lord Jesus and dying patiently, and then labels him a “valiant soldier and captain of Christ.”70 For Foxe, Cromwell is quite the hero of faith: “How desirous and studious this good Cromwell was, in the cause of Christ’s religion, examples need not be brought. His whole life was nothing else but a continual care and travail how to advance and further the right knowledge of the gospel, and reform the house of God.”71 While not specifically calling him “martyr,” Foxe employs many of the images of martyrology in describing Cromwell’s end, and likens Cromwell to three whom he does call martyrs who died around the same time.72 Catholic sources’ depiction of Thomas Cromwell could hardly be more different than Foxe’s.73 As an example of the latter, Maurice Chauncy’s

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  81 account of the persecution and execution of a house of Carthusian monks in London vilifies Cromwell. He places onto the lips of Cromwell these threatening words against the Carthusian leaders, when they ask to be exempted from the directive to acknowledge King Henry as supreme authority over the Church in England: “Never did Pharaoh persecute the Israelites or that cruel Nero the Christians as grievously as I will persecute you and your Order.”74 When a jury wanted to acquit a group of Carthusians who had been put on trial, finding them to be “pious, saintly, and innocent,” Chauncy asserts, the threats of Cromwell persuaded the jurors to change their verdict to guilty.75 Two Carthusians were then tortured and killed. When later episodes of this persecution of Catholics resulted in ten other monks being martyred (“They surrendered to God their souls, precious, fragrant and sweet-​smelling”), Cromwell is said by Chauncey to have been angry that their deaths had been so quick and merciful.76 There are several reasons for this foray into More and Cromwell. They obviously illustrate the fact that martyrdom depends upon the eye of the beholder. One tradition’s martyr and saint was naturally seen by another confessional community as a villain. Both of these Thomases are considered martyrs by particular Christian communities. Yet both have been condemned as persecutors by opposing Christian communities. And their depiction seems to have as much to do with the community’s assessment of them as with historical facts. But more to the point of our overarching theme of violence, they are considered martyrs—​in the case of More, in a fully canonized sense within Catholicism—​even though their calling as laymen involved in government entangled them in the bearing of the sword. Even though neither of them swung the sword or lit the pyre that brought Catholic or Protestant victims to their deaths, they supervised and approved of such violence in the name of the state in its marriage with what they regarded as the true church. It is undoubtedly far too easy for us, centuries removed from these events, to click our tongues in disapproval, using our sense of religious toleration or ecumenical sensitivities to stand in judgment over figures such as Cromwell and More. What the writer Marilynn Robinson says about John Calvin with regard to his approval of the burning of the heretic Servetus applies well here: “Ferocious polemic was the style of the period. Calvin was not so remarkable for it as Martin Luther or Thomas More.”77 What was relatively moderate in Calvin’s Geneva was downright ferocious in places such as England. In short, there is perhaps need for some sympathy for More and Cromwell, not just as those acclaimed as martyrs, but also as ones seen as

82  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence persecutors, as they were simply denizens of their time, a complicated time, one when the ambiguities not just of sin and politics, but of faith and the violence of the sword, were on full display in the magisterial churches. Among the many questions for us today are what we mean when we apply or deny the status of martyr to these figures and for what reasons we do so. If we laud them as martyrs, is it because we agree with their confessional cause or we find ourselves impressed by their courage? Is it because we actually glimpse the story of Jesus and the call to discipleship in their lives and deaths? Does their directing of the “sword” complicate their case as martyrs? On the other hand, if we deny the status of martyr to one of these men, is it because we do not affiliate with his brand of Christianity? Or because his story, though displaying courage, doesn’t compellingly cast light on the way of Christ? In that case, is his involvement in persecutorial violence a contributing factor? Is that violence different from, say, the violence employed by Christian soldiers against those invading their cities or countries?

Martyr Claims in the European Wars of Religion Some of the martyr stories this book has used as examples and case studies—​ including those of More and Cromwell—​have come from the Reformation period, at times when minority confessions were persecuted and illegalized by majority expressions of faith affiliated with a particular state. We have seen, for example, Protestant John Rogers brought to the stake in Catholic England, Anabaptist Dirk Willems killed in Catholic Netherlands, and Catholic Thomas More put to death in newly quasi-​Protestant England. Shortly on the heels of these intra-​ Christian martyrdoms of the Reformation, and closely related to them, are martyr accounts from the time of the so-​called wars of religion in post-​Reformation Europe. These martyr stories show much continuity with the martyr stories of the earlier Reformation, but they also juxtapose violence and martyrdom even more directly in the same protagonists. John Morrill, for example, indicates that Puritans in England were perhaps encouraged to defend Protestantism through military means by interpreting the politics of their day against the backdrop of Foxe’s beloved book of martyrs.78 Foxe himself did not directly consider the question of soldiers in a war being martyrs when they die while fighting for a righteous cause, though he has no trouble seeing a magistrate like Thomas Cromwell (who as minister to the king was involved in the

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  83 kingdom’s “sword”) as a martyr for his Protestant confession.79 Elsewhere in Europe (and later in England), this became a topic for closer consideration as the wars of religion unfolded. Flowing out of the Reformation, these wars have no firm starting date (roughly the 1540s) or end date (roughly 1650, especially the Peace of Westphalia on the Continent and the conclusion of the English Civil War, though lingering into the early 1700s in France and Switzerland). Part of the complexity of the European “wars of religion” is reflected by the misleading nature of the terminology invented to talk about them.80 In addition to genuine religious and confessional elements, these conflicts also involved politics old and new, and reflected long-​standing historical tensions that predate the Reformation. We should be reminded here of Karl Rahner’s caution about how even religious wars involve so many secular motives that it is hard to sort out the various elements. Ronald Asch argues that calling a war a “war of religion” is a matter not so much of determining whether participants had religious intentions for fighting, as intentions are usually opaque, but of how they interpreted the result of the fighting: “What is more important,” he writes, “is the sanctification or sacralization of violence and of death. We can speak of a religious war when those who are killed in such a war fighting for the true faith are seen to some extent as martyrs or certainly as men or women who have some claim to a place in heaven because they have suffered for their faith.”81 That addresses the dying side. On the killing side of an actual religious war, Asch draws upon the work of Denis Crouzet in stating that “violence becomes part of a cleansing ritual whereby the stains which heresy or idolatry have left on the body politic are wiped out.”82 Such religious motives often resulted in the erosion of restraint in the methods and attitudes of fighting.83 On all sides of these bloody conflicts, some of the victims, including soldiers, were lauded as martyrs when they died as emblems of their confessional/​political cause, but especially at points when representatives of a national or theological cause were butchered by their opponents at moments when they were relatively defenseless. In light of this book’s exploration of the relation between Christian suffering and inflicting of violence, it is both understandable and telling that the term “martyr” springs to mind more quickly and naturally when violence is only suffered than it does when both are immediately intermingled. The key difference from earlier Reformation martyrologies is that in these circumstances there was usually violence on both sides, and many victims, even in massacres, had themselves employed or supported the sword in the course of the struggle for their confessional

84  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence and political allegiance (as the two were usually hard to separate). A famous French example will help to make the point. In France, a series of wars between Protestant and Catholic factions wracked the nation from the 1560s to the late 1590s, continuing in fits and spurts into the seventeenth century.84 On the Protestant side, the largest and most powerful group were the so-​called Huguenots, those French Protestants with Reformed/​Calvinist commitments. Beginning in 1562 with the Massacre of Vassy and the killing of dozens of Huguenots,85 which had itself been preceded by Huguenot violence and even an attempt on their part to kidnap the king, a long period of conflict broke out between the Huguenots and harder-​line Catholic parties, with other more moderate groups trying to mediate between the two in order to preserve a semblance of peace and order. As these conflicts stretched out, usually distinguished as a series of discrete wars with periods of tenuous peace separating them, a pivotal moment occurred in 1572 in the infamous St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre. Beginning in Paris with the assassination of a key Huguenot figurehead, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, and other leaders, a series of mob actions unfolded in cities and towns throughout France, leaving approximately four to six thousand Protestants dead, and launching the fourth French war of religion.86 On the Catholic side of this massacre, we see evidence of the mentality described by Asch on the killing side of a religious war. Not only did French Catholics see the event as a purging of the poison of Protestantism, but Pope Gregory XIII attended church masses held in Rome to celebrate the massacre and even commissioned a set of paintings of the massacre.87 On the Protestant side, the side that in this case suffered violence, some of the stories of victims were told in a martyrological way. Donald Kelley asserts that the Protestant community knew “practically before it happened” what the event was—​a massacre—​and what part they would play—​“that highly stylized and stereotyped role called ‘martyrdom.’ ”88 He shows that the participants were well schooled in the history of Protestant martyrs, having become familiar with the work of John Foxe and having deeply imbibed Jean Crespin’s History of Martyrs, with its focus on the French scene.89 When the French state and Catholic Church determined to destroy Protestant heretics, “The result was to intensify the impression of Protestants that they were recapitulating the experiences of early Christians.”90 Unsurprisingly, one of the most prominent martyrologies resulting from the St. Bartholomew’s Day events was the telling of the death of Admiral

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  85 Coligny. One of the more martyrological of the chroniclers was Simon Goulart, who not only wrote a history of this time period, Memoirs of the State of France under Charles IX, but also took it upon himself to enlarge and republish Crespin’s History of Martyrs after Crespin had died (using much material from his Memoirs in the enlarged editions of Crespin’s collection).91 Goulart tells of Coligny and his companions, upon hearing that their house was under attack, prostrating themselves on the ground, asking for God’s forgiveness, praying, and commending their spirits to the hands of Christ, some of the traditional martyrological actions.92 One of the men says to the admiral, “My lord, it is God who calls us elsewhere. The house has been forced open, and there is no means of resisting it.” The admiral responds with the faithful assurance displayed by Christian martyrs for more than a millennium: “I have been ready to die for a long time. . . . I commend my soul to the mercy of God.”93 What Kelley wrote regarding a different account of the admiral’s death also applies here to Goulart’s account: “Coligny was beginning to sound like a martyr.”94 Goulart the narrator immediately relates the observation that those watching the admiral testified that he did not appear troubled by his impending death. When the killers finally made their way to the admiral, he spoke to them with a “peaceful and assured visage,” and some of the killers found themselves taken with a “strange fright” in the presence of the admiral.95 Shortly, he was killed, thrown out of the window, and his body paraded through the streets by a mob. From across the English Channel John Foxe wrote of “the martyrdom of this good man.”96 Some historians have spoken of the “mythical” aspect of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, not in the sense of pure fantasy, but in the sense of a foundational story rooted in real events that is elevated and stylized by its tellers such that it functions to consolidate a community’s identity.97 Kelley writes of how the Huguenot identity became associated with “martyrly defiance,” with massacres such as those at Vassy and on St. Bartholomew’s Day coming to serve as “hyper-​events” that nurtured resistance among the Huguenots and depicted their Catholic opponents as little more than butchers whose violence was the root cause of the conflict.98 Robert Kingdon notes that Goulart’s account of Admiral Coligny’s reaction to an earlier assassination attempt that left him wounded includes a prayer that (1) displayed his trinitarian orthodoxy; (2) proved his Protestant bona fides, and (3) invoked the steadfast witness of early Christian martyrs.99 While some of the St. Bartholomew’s Day victims perform the traditional martyr acts by praying, forgiving their killers, commending their spirits to God, or showing

86  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence joy in the face of death,100 for many victims there wasn’t enough time or opportunity to deploy the martyr tropes that they knew so well—​the accounts are just of Huguenots being butchered without time for preparation, trial, or demonstration of martyrological constancy.101 Nor was there time on this occasion for them to arm themselves. This last point is a reminder that, despite the reprehensible, bloody butchery perpetrated against the Huguenots on St. Bartholomew’s Day and thereafter, this Protestant community had been an active faction in a series of politico-​ religious wars. This distinguishes it from the more or less helpless Christian martyrs of the early church or the “defenseless lambs” of the Anabaptist martyrologies. H. S. Koenigsberger captures the irony concisely: “Martyrdom was, no doubt, splendid, but it was not the most important way of achieving their aims, of strengthening their numbers and their legal position in the nation, or perhaps even of converting the whole kingdom. For such ends, and of course for their survival as a religious group, they were willing to fight a succession of most unmartyrlike civil wars.”102 The Huguenots, he writes, “were not at all the natural martyrs they became in the Protestant martyrologies. They were tough, experienced soldiers.”103 In relation to our overall purposes in this book, it is worth noting that this way of putting the matter implies that “martyr” and “soldier” may be like oil and water, hard to mix (a reasonable intuition that this book is disputing). Kingdon points out that even Goulart admits that the readiness of the Catholic masses to butcher their Protestant countrymen and women in the town of Orleans may have been nurtured by the city’s memory of its prior invasion by Protestant armies, which had destroyed Catholic images and cities in a wave of iconoclasm, as well as other Protestant actions in the previous decade.104 This element of the story—​the military training and military deeds, both licit and illicit, of the Huguenots—​ is naturally minimized in the Protestant accounts of the day. Later stories of Admiral Coligny, for example, made him even more pronounced in his religious devotion and Reformed commitments, while giving less attention to his political machinations and leadership in battle.105 What this episode from the wars of religion shows us, on the one hand, is a series of proclaimed martyrs who were deeply involved in military endeavors, but on the other hand whose military endeavors are de-​emphasized when they are lionized as martyrs. Perhaps that is a natural reaction in the face of massacre and death. But it is a reaction that also nods toward the very tension that we are exploring—​the ironic relationship between martyrdom as a

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  87 suffering of violence in witness to the truth of the faith, and the inflicting of violence by the same subjects. On the other hand, some thinkers both before and after the massacre drew these two elements—​the military bearing of the sword and martyrdom’s suffering of it—​even closer together rather than instinctively separating them. One of those was John Calvin’s successor in Geneva, the Frenchman Theodore Beza, who was distraught over the events of St. Bartholomew’s Day. His outrage over the day’s events impelled him to write a politico-​theological treatise on the constitutional rights of a people to resist a tyrant.106 While admitting that the prophets, Jesus, and the early martyrs could be marshaled to support the rejection of the use of force in defense of true religion, Beza argues that it is “an absurd, nay even a false opinion that the means by which the objects and affairs of this world are defended” shouldn’t also be used to support true religion. Rather, “It is the principal duty of a most excellent and pious ruler that he should apply whatever means, authority and power has been granted to him by God to this end entirely that God may truly be recognized among his subjects and may, being recognized, be worshipped and adored as the supreme king of all kings,” including using the military as a last resort.107 While it is only through the Word and the Spirit that true religion should be “introduced and spread,”108 it is the job of the magistrate to defend established biblical (i.e., non-​Catholic and non-​Anabaptist) religion. What warrants does Beza give? On one level, he asserts that the ultimate purpose of government is not earthly tranquility, “but the glory of God, towards which the whole present life of men should be directed.”109 On the level of scripture and tradition, Beza affirms that the duty of rulers to preserve true religion has been a mainstay viewpoint of historic Christianity.110 When rulers attempt to foist false, idolatrous religion upon their subjects, then, according to Beza, the situation is more complicated. Subjects never have the right to revolt in order to “force their ruler to a complete change in their condition,” even if current laws support false religion. In such a case, “They will consider it needful patiently to bear with him even to persecution, while they worship God purely in the meantime, or altogether to go into exile and seek new abodes.”111 This approach he naturally associates with the early church, when Christianity was not yet legalized.112 If, however, existing laws allow for true religion, as in France, it is not within the prerogative of the ruler to alter them unilaterally.113 In such a case, “He is practising manifest tyranny,” and opposition by means of other state offices (not by individuals or a mob) is permitted. Here Beza gradually moves in a martyrological direction, saying

88  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence that opposition is permissible, “as we are bound to set greater store and value by the salvation of our souls and the freedom of our conscience than by any other matters however desirable.”114 Though he qualifies the point by saying that it may not always be “expedient” to resist tyranny against established true religion by means of armed force, he does say that “those upon whom this burden rests and to whom God has granted the opportunity” may use such force, with various Old Testament precursors and Constantine offered as examples. Here Beza ties peaceful resistance and armed resistance together with a martyrological cord: Hence I conclude that among the martyrs should be counted not only those who have defeated the tyranny of the enemies of the truth by no other defence than patience, but those also who, duly supported by the authority of laws or those whose right it is to defend the laws, devoted their strength to God in defence of the true religion.115

Thus in Beza’s view—​one fueled by his indignation at the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and his concern that the Reformation could ultimately fail in France116—​the honorific title of martyr may apply also to those who die in physical battle, using worldly weapons, to support the true gospel of Jesus Christ. There are constraints: it must be authorized by law and called by a competent authority, and can only be used in circumstances where Christian religion is already established or legal. In short, justified violence in the name of true religion and the death of martyrdom are consistent. What we have, in this historical moment, is martyrdom considered within a holy war variation of just war.117

Interlude: Colonialism, Mission, and Martyrdom Before returning to the increasingly important yet only tenuous distinction between holy war and just war, we must briefly touch on another complex intersection between Christian violence and Christian martyrdom. The post-​ Reformation /​early modern period saw not only violent conflict between different Christian confessions in Europe, but also growing missionary efforts to bring Christian faith (of many confessional stripes) to lands beyond Christendom. This, of course, was also the era of European colonialism. While well intended by some of its participants, the confluence between

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  89 evangelization and colonial conquest has also rightly been described as a “violent evangelism.”118 In the course of missionary efforts during this period, there were numerous instances of Christians being killed by those who they hoped would eventually accept the Christian gospel. In some of those cases what we likely have is simply a violent rejection of the Christian message and its messengers, the latter of whom can rather unambiguously be proclaimed as martyrs. Such missionary martyrs suffered violence for Christ and as such fulfill the criteria for martyrdom. But in many circumstances, the messengers of Christ were killed at least in part because they were associated with the colonial project, with the violence that Western Christendom was inflicting—​sometimes obviously and sometimes subtly—​upon the non-​West.119 A few brief examples will suggest the tension this contributes to our discussion of the relationship between Christian suffering and inflicting of violence. One comes from sixteenth-​and seventeenth-​century Japan, a time when Portuguese Jesuits were engaged in the project of evangelizing the Japanese. While successful at some points, this mission effort provoked a rather brutal crackdown at other points, leading to the persecution and death of thousands of Christians, both missionaries from Europe and their Japanese converts. One of the most theologically poignant explorations of this episode is the historical novel Silence by Shusaku Endo, which follows a Portuguese Jesuit, Father Rodrigues, as he seeks to carry out his mission and is eventually captured and pressured to renounce his faith. We shall return to other elements of this novel in later chapters, but an element that is germane to our present discussion is how the Japanese authorities regard the Christian missionaries as the advance guard of the colonialist armies of Europe or as reflecting condescending colonialist attitudes. In Rodrigues’s first conversation with his interpreter after being imprisoned, the latter speaks of the disparaging attitudes that previous missionaries had adopted toward Japanese culture: “The fathers always ridiculed us. I knew Father Cabral—​he had nothing but contempt for everything Japanese. He despised our houses; he despised our language; he despised our food and our customs—​and yet he lived in Japan. Even those of us who graduated from the seminary he did not allow to become priests.”120 Beyond such attitudes, Inoue, the governor who interrogates Rodrigues and directs the torture of the Christians, sees Christianity as intrinsically affiliated with European colonial ambitions. He likens the major European powers to a man’s four concubines who will not stop quarreling with one another in relation to their master: “Spain, Portugal,

90  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Holland, England and such—​like women keep whispering jealous tales of slander into the ear of the man called Japan.”121 Accordingly, the horrific violence of persecution directed against the Japanese Christians and their Jesuit teachers is framed by Governor Inoue as a justified response to the prior violence of European Christianity’s attacks against the integrity of Japan. If there is any truth in his conclusions, does that affect whether his victims can be regarded as martyrs? A similar story can be told in relation to other martyr accounts that emerge from the history of Western Christian mission. One such example is an African retelling of the deaths of a group of nineteenth-​century native and European martyrs in Uganda around the time of Europe’s “scramble” for Africa. Like the Jesuits in Japan, the missionaries in Uganda and their Ugandan flock experience tortures and deaths that naturally make us think of figures like Polycarp and Perpetua in the early church. One of the Ugandans, Joseph Mukasa, displays the assured calm of many a Christian martyr, receiving the Eucharist on the day of his approaching execution. Like Polycarp, he goes willingly: “Joseph went to death like a free man. He did not want to be bound: ‘Why bind me? Do you think I shall flee? . . . A Christian who gives his life for God is not afraid to die.’ ”122 Like many a Christian martyr before him, he forgives his executioner and urges the latter’s conversion.123 However, we glimpse the complexity of the story when the narrator states that “[King] Mwanga could not see the difference between the English praying ones [Christians] and the English colonizers.” Accordingly, the narrator characterizes the king’s assessment of Christianity as “the religion of the whites.”124 As a final example, we could think of Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe’s acclaimed novel Things Fall Apart.125 The first half of the book describes the existing cultural realities of a Nigerian clan that is spread out over nine villages, including their traditional religious practices, which involve some realities that to Western minds, as well as to some of the Nigerians, are horrifying—​such as the practice of killing a captive to assuage the gods or the exposure of twins, when born, because they are seen as an abomination. The second part of the book brings with it the clash of cultures, worldviews, and theologies when missionaries, some white and some African, arrive on the scene. Similar to the Romans surveying the early church, the native clans perceive Christianity at first to be merely odd and not overly threatening. But when the number of converts grows, and those converts become increasingly bold in their rejecting of traditional taboos, practices, and deities, tensions

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  91 rise. Since the clan, like Roman paganism long before, sees the benevolence of its gods as necessary for the flourishing of their community, their response is persecution—​barring the Christians from the village, from water sources, and so on. The obvious difference that makes this situation, despite its parallels, so different from the early church under Rome is that the Christian presence in what became Nigeria was accompanied by the power and violence of Western colonialism. When a white missionary is killed early in the encounter, one natural response might be to apply the label of martyr. However, the missionary’s presence and activity, while laudable and from a certain Christian angle even necessary, brought with it a kind of cultural violence. In the novel, putting a more drastic point on it, the result is that a village is razed. Can the murdered Christian be individually considered a martyr if his or her own actions, though not personally or directly violent, carry with them—​even unwittingly—​the violence of colonialism? With colonialism, we are talking about aggression and unjustified violence, which brings with it serious complications for claims of Christian martyrdom. Isn’t the light cast by a Christian’s story upon Jesus the liberator darkened when complicity in oppression—​even if mostly unintended—​is an element of the story? At the same time, we may find that light still there. We may find the criteria of Christian martyrdom to be largely if far from perfectly met. Accordingly, we may find ourselves still willing, even while acknowledging the presence of colonial violence, to regard that Christian as a martyr. For example, we may have sympathy for King Mwanga’s unwillingness or inability to distinguish between Christianity and colonialism, but still find ourselves unable to call Joseph Mukasa anything other than a martyr. Is such a judgment related to the fact that he is Ugandan and therefore less complicit in the colonialist infiltrations of Christian faith? Would our conclusions be different for one of the European missionaries, one of the “White Fathers”?126

Holy War and Just War Are our judgments about potential martyrdom changed if the violence in question is actually justified? What if the potential martyrs were conscious agents of that violence? With true religion as a just cause, Beza certainly thought so. The soldier could also be martyr. Beza provides an instructive

92  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence comparison to the father of Protestantism, Martin Luther, and his reflections on whether Christians were allowed to use force to combat the incursions of the Ottoman Turks in central and eastern Europe in the early sixteenth century. As Gregory Miller shows, the historical and intellectual backdrop to Luther’s reflections on this question included the Crusades of the later Middle Ages. As we have already seen, the application of the language of martyrdom to those killed in battle was introduced into the ideological waters of Western Christendom in the holy war context of the Crusades. During Luther’s time it was popular to see the fight against the Ottoman Empire as another crusade against the infidel.127 According to Miller, Luther’s response to the Turkish threat reflects some interesting tensions. On the one hand, Luther regarded the appearance of the Turks as the judgment of God upon Europe’s unwillingness to reform its religion; he also saw the crusade mentality as troubling because it was associated with that cardinal symbol of the divide between Catholicism and Protestantism—​the indulgence.128 This did not mean, on the other hand, that Luther was opposed to the use of force to repel the Turks. However, instead of seeing it in crusading terms, he provides warrant through the language of just war, albeit still with elements that would today be more associated with holy war. Miller shows how Luther sticks close to the Augustinian tradition in delineating war as a public action (as opposed to private self-​defense, which is always dubious for the Christian) that must be waged as a last resort by the Christian with an attitude of love. Provided that these conditions are met, then it is “godly and right” (though never without moral and spiritual danger) for the Christian to fight, “stabbing and killing, robbing and burning, as military law requires us to do to our enemies in wartime.”129 Luther affirms, importantly, that noncombatants (especially with women and the threat of rape in mind) must not be abused, and asserts that soldiers should not obey a ruler if they are persuaded that a war is waged for an unjust cause.130 For that reason, he insists on the possibility of selective conscientious objection to military service. In the case of the Turks, Luther is clear that this is not a crusading holy war. It is something done by rulers in the earthly kingdoms of the world, not by the church or the kingdom of God.131 As Miller writes, “Christians as Christians (that is, in regard to their Christian calling and responsibilities) were not to lead or even participate in battle. Scripture commanded believers not to resist evil; fighting against the Turks [for specifically Christian reasons] would be a protest against martyrdom.”132 Albeit in slightly different contexts—​one inter-​religious and the other inter-​confessional—​Luther’s approach differs

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  93 from Beza’s when he affirms that Christianity cannot be defended by earthly or military means, although he does leave open the possibility of the state using military force to stop obvious persecution of the church or obvious blasphemy against God.133 In the end, for Luther, it is mainly because the Turks are aggressors, disturbing peace and order in society, that violence is warranted.134 It is the good of peaceful and lawful society, not the well-​being or advancement or defense of the church, that may justify war.135 There are, however, a few aspects of Luther’s approach that, by today’s standards at least, complicate the picture. Though he did not think that the Christian qua Christian should participate in war, he did think (based on Romans 13) that a Christian’s failure to enthusiastically follow the prince’s call to a just war could result in damnation.136 Miller describes a “careful balance” in Luther’s thinking at this point: “One should not fight against the Turks under the name of Christ or because they are enemies of Christ, yet this is no blatant secularization of war. . . . This was a war in Christian obedience to the earthly duty to protect the neighbor that one is called to love. By no means was this military action an attempt to defend the church, capture Jerusalem, or expand the kingdom of God.”137 Though the war’s just cause is “earthly duty” rather than true religion, there is religious meaning in such warfare, shown most vividly by Luther’s willingness, similar to Beza’s, to apply the language of martyrdom to those genuine Christians, obedient to their ruler, who died fighting the Turks.138 This parallels his earlier thoughts regarding the German peasant war: “Thus, anyone who is killed fighting on the side of the rulers may be a true martyr in the eyes of God, if he fights with the kind of conscience I have just described, for he acts in obedience to God’s word.”139 Curiously, however, Luther does not mention martyrdom in his longer treatise on war and the salvation of soldiers.140 Finally, Luther provides the important insight, one that we will examine and unpack in later chapters, that proper and permissible Christian participation in war—​and any potential martyrdom therein—​is related to the creational and human good of social order and flourishing, not directly to religious or confessional considerations. In his view, it is a religious duty to protect order and civic life. In other words, he has shifted away from holy war toward what we think of today as a just war rationale, even though those two categories were mixed together in his day.141 Throughout this chapter’s discussion of premodern saints and martyrs who wielded or were involved with the sword, we have run up against the difficulty of making a strong and clear distinction between “holy war” and

94  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence “just war” before the end of the wars of religion and the dawning of the principle of the separation of church and state. LeRoy Walters shows a strong analogy between the just war and religious war in thinkers from Aquinas in the thirteenth century, all the way to Suárez and Grotius in the seventeenth century.142 Similarly, James Turner Johnson contends that holy war tended to function as a species of just war, even as it problematized the kind of restraint required for the latter.143 Mentalities toward war in the Orthodox Christian East remained even more firmly rooted in just war thinking, usually eschewing the imagery of holy war (which, as we have seen, had often been present in Western discussions of just war going back as far as Augustine).144 The Crusades and many facets of the Reformation and its aftermath certainly blended war for politics and war for religion together in a way that later thinkers found to be troubling, thus prompting them to distinguish more firmly between the holy war and just war mindsets.145 Luther’s reflections are thus a prescient approximation of what would become this important distinction in the thinking of the modern world, forged in no small part by figures such as Vitoria and Grotius, who “secularized” just war reasoning, despite being theologians.146 This distinction has often been easier to hold in theory than in practice, as the brief mentions of the American Civil War and World War I at the beginning of the chapter suggest.147 Nevertheless, Luther’s approach suggests the clarity that is provided by this emerging albeit tenuous distinction. It means that a just cause that a Christian can fight for, perhaps with martyrdom as a possibility, will be defense against aggression that seriously threatens ordinary flourishing, civic life, the good everyday life of society. As Jean Bethke Elshtain has written (against the backdrop of the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks), the good that justifies war when threatened is the “basic civil peace,” the simple but profound good that is moms and dads raising their children, men and women going to work, citizens of a great city making their way on streets and subways, ordinary people buying airplane tickets in order to visit the grandkids in California, men and women en route to transact business with colleagues in other cities, the faithful attending their churches, synagogues, and mosques without fear.148

The legitimate just cause is not (as in earlier eras) the promotion of a particular religion or faith. The defense of religious liberty or defense of a faith community could be justified—​but it would be the good of religious practice

Soldiers and Saints, Magistrates and Martyrs  95 as part of everyday life and the flourishing of humanity, whatever the religion, that is being defended. In short, it is dire threats to the human community, not the Christian community, that may justify defensive violence. Such a perspective reverses that of Bernard of Clairvaux, which we encountered earlier in this chapter: it is “worldly” causes—​justice in society—​that alone may warrant war, but Christianity itself needs no military advocacy. The question is whether Christian participation in such wars for justice and civic peace can be honored with the language of martyrdom for some fallen Christian fighters.149 While the next three chapters show the complexity of that question, they will also suggest that an affirmative answer simultaneously provides guidance for a distinctively Christian shape of participation in justified war.

5 Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning The previous chapter explored examples of magisterial Christianity’s willingness—​with some revealing inconsistencies and tensions—​to consider sword-​bearers as martyrs. Though such a marriage between the suffering and inflicting of violence has usually reflected what is often regarded as a holy war perspective, Luther anticipates modern theology’s move toward a “purer” just war expression of the matter, in the process considering just warriors as possible martyrs when killed in battle. For Luther’s martyr move to be persuasive, much more needs to be said—​ and will be said in Chapter 7, especially regarding the relationship of the criteria of martyrdom to participation in a just war. But a prior question needs to be addressed first. Is this just war thinking defensible, both theologically and ethically? While Chapter 3 introduced the logic and history of just war reasoning, a more extensive consideration of it is needed if the possibility of martyrdom is going to be seriously entertained for the just war’s Christian practitioners. One of the tender spots of the just war ethic, as we have seen, is that it may seem to have a rather unconvincing relationship to the teaching of Jesus. By contrast, a pacifist ethic can appear to tap more directly into the words of Jesus as it strives to take the harder lines of the Sermon on the Mount in the most straightforward way possible. Moreover, the assumption that a pacifist-​tending reading of the words of Jesus predominated in the Christian church until the turn of the fourth century CE can produce the suspicion that the shift from principled nonviolence to a just war mentality in early Christianity was mainly a function of politics and power dynamics: when the Christian church finally finds itself in a position of power, it flips its ethic regarding violence around. The church whose martyrs’ blood was shed by its enemies now finds a way to justify the shedding of enemies’ blood. By that argument, the shift toward a just war approach to violence was unprincipled.1 The suspicion that the shift was somehow arbitrary or dubious could be further deepened by skepticism regarding the later church’s application of the language of martyrdom to crusaders and soldiers, including fighters against other Christian peoples (as we saw in the previous

Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0006

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  97 chapter). Does that kind of martyrdom really shed light upon Jesus? Where is the witness to the gospel in such action? With this set of challenges in mind, we need to delve further into the logic and sensibilities of just war thinking, including clarifying the reasoning behind its claim that the judicious and restrained use of violence does not represent a departure from Jesus and the gospel. Grappling with that deeper logic of the just war mentality will make it possible for us to consider, in the following two chapters, what it means for a theology of martyrdom and for a just war approach to violence if it is in fact possible for soldiers (as synecdoche for any justified kind of violence) to be Christian martyrs when dying in the course of their sword-​bearing activity. Our first step in this process is to think more carefully about the term “violence.”

The Nature and Varieties of Violence Though “violence” is a word that we frequently use, its reality is actually rather slippery.2 First of all, there are questions about how exactly we should define it. Is it just one thing? Are there different types of violence, and if so, are the differences morally and theologically significant? How is “violence” different from related concepts such as power, force, and coercion?3 There are also questions about what exactly makes violence a problem: Is it always a bad thing? Are all things that we might tend to label “violent” wrong? These initial issues point to additional theological questions that wait in the wings: What is the root of violence? Is it to be found in the fundamental goodness of creation (as, say, in the evolutionary nature of space, time, and biological life, and thus part of the nature of history as “struggle”)? Or is it solely tied to the presence of sin (as a distortion of creation’s intended goodness)? Finally, can acts of violence ever be “redemptive” or reparative, that is to say, part of the solution to the problem constituted by other forms of violence? As these questions pile up, we might be tempted to adapt the well-​known line from Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart in 1964 and say that, while violence is hard to define, we know it when we see it. Or do we? Isn’t it possible that certain forms of violence are plain as day, but other forms easily and often remain hidden? Physical violence, the focus of our attention so far, may be easier for us to recognize than forms of psychological violence. Similarly, an act committed by an individual is easier to label as violent than structures that slowly harm people and communities

98  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence through systems and institutions that have taken their shape over long periods of time. What, then, is the nature of violence?

The Language of Violence We often equivocate in our language of violence. Consider, for example, the following four phrases: “violent storm,” “violent shout,” “violent insult,” “violent punch.” The same adjective appears in each of the phrases, yet the noun it modifies makes a difference in the nature of the adjective, as does the implied subject of the phrase. Talking about a violent storm is a way of referring to something in nature that has no single, conscious agent behind it, but is powerful, potentially damaging, and often quite frightening. A violent shout, on the other hand, could be a way of referring to a sharp yell with any number of intended ends, running the gamut from a sinister attempt to intimidate someone to a helpful attempt to warn someone of a car headed straight at her as she checks her phone while crossing a street. “Violent” in that context refers more to the shout’s sudden interruption of an otherwise calmer context. A violent punch, as a physical action probably by a conscious agent, involves intent and physical harm. However, whether it takes place in a supervised boxing ring at a youth center or in domestic abuse makes a significant difference in what we mean when we call it “violent.” A violent insult, in turn, though not a physical act, is an act by an agent that usually intends to hurt or harm, even when it’s accompanied by a smile. These examples show that the language of “violence” is used in a wide variety of ways. To a degree, this equivocation is just part of the metaphorical nature of language: An English language where we couldn’t describe a comedian’s barb as vicious, simply because it is not vicious in the same way that a dog attack is, would seem to be an impoverished version of the language. At the same time, we generally recognize the difference between a tongue-​in-​cheek application of the language of violence and what we might call a “serious” application of it. Perhaps it is in the arena of related verbs that we can gain greater clarity regarding the nature and problem of violence. We often talk of one’s doing violence to another as “violating” that other. We may distinguish between active and passive applications of this verb—​to “violate” and to be “violated.” This immediately brings us to the language of crime—​active perpetrators of certain kinds of crimes are often labeled “violators” because their actions violate

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  99 or break the law. However, it is more likely to be used when their actions “violate” the well-​being, integrity, and personhood of others. Those others, the more or less passive victims of such violence, are as such “violated”—​disrupted, debased, or intruded upon by the actions of the violator. This may go some distance in pointing us to the real problem with “violence”—​that it is an action that harms others by breaching the integrity of their selfhood. The sense of being personally “violated” by acts of violence is perhaps most commonly used in instances of sexual assault, where the act of violence involves both physical and psychological dimensions that are experienced as an especially grave attack upon the integrity of the victim’s personhood. The fact that the punch and insult “violate” in a way that the storm does not—​that is, that we can more naturally use the verb “violates” with them as the subject—​also suggests that part of the problem with violence is that it could and should have been otherwise. Violence in the full and serious sense of the word involves harm intended by an agent.4 Accordingly, when a victim fights back against an attacker, even if using physical force that harms the attacker, we may choose not to label it “violence” because it does not “violate” in the same way. Let us, then, stipulate the following preliminary definition of what violence is when it is a problem: it is an action that harms others by breaching the integrity of their personhood, and an action that its agent could and should have avoided. This general definition works both for physical and for psychological forms of violence. And if we acknowledge that “action” can apply also to structures and systems that have society or certain groups within society as their subject, then the definition could also apply equally to personal and to social violence. For example, it seems reasonable to say that institutionalized racism is violence, that is, that as a systemic matrix of societal actions it “violates” persons and communities of color by breaching the integrity of their (individual and communal) personhood, and that this system of actions could and should have been avoided (or could and should be changed) by the historical (and contemporary) architects of society.5 While the long historical forces involved make the latter part of the claim greatly complicated, they do not make it untrue. Of course, this definition is harder to apply to acts of nature, as it is difficult to say that the “action” could and should have been avoided.6 Plate tectonics being what they are, it is hard to say that an earthquake or tsunami should not have happened.7 At the same time, however, it seems like the term “violence” still applies, at least in a sense, as the level of sheer destruction (e.g., in recent earthquakes in Haiti or the 2004 Indonesia tsunami or

100  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Hurricane Katrina in 2005) is often so extensive and the human cost almost unspeakable.

Orders of Violence and Just War Intuitions The just war tradition is based upon distinctions between genuine violence and its close conceptual neighbors. At the heart of the tradition is the distinction between aggression and defense. It distinguishes between violence (including policies, structures, and threats) that is aggressive in intent (and therefore a violation of justice and shalom) and violence that is defensive or reparative in intent (and therefore potentially justified as a way of protecting or restoring the good of social welfare, especially for those who are most vulnerable to aggression—​with the widow and orphan as biblical symbol). As we have seen, Augustine insists that the goal of defensive violence—​the only kind that can be considered “justified”—​must be the repair of justice and peace. In this way, in his view, this counter-​violence is consistent with justice and not a violation of it. As we have also seen, the just war ethic insists that the possibility of legitimate defensive violence is not a carte blanche blessing for all forms, expressions, and means of it. Even reparative violence, when not restrained and limited, can quickly and easily devolve into an aggressive form of violence. Not all violence is equivalent, but there always exists the danger of more noble forms reverting to the ignoble forms that they purport to resist.8 Accordingly, the just war tradition at its most sober is aware of the ubiquitous danger of the downward spiral of any violence, including justified violence. It is worth noting that justified defensive or reparative violence doesn’t quite fulfill our initial working definition of the problem of violence. Its purpose is not to harm or breach the integrity of a person or community, but rather to repair or protect it. As we saw in Chapter 3, the just war tradition believes that defensive action in the face of serious aggression is required by a legitimate sovereign, who has the responsibility to safeguard the well-​being of the people under his or her authority. This may be a reason for not using the term “violence” to describe defensive war, just as we may sometimes describe the defensive or protective actions of a police officer as a “justified use of force” instead of “violence.” Whether that is a discriminating use of language or simply an obfuscating euphemism may perhaps lie in the eye of the beholder, but it has warrant in just war reasoning.9 At the same time, though

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  101 not its ultimate aim, defensive war certainly involves physical harm intended against other combatants, and inevitably involves physical and psychological harm to communities ravaged by war, including the so-​called collateral damage, just as a police officer’s baton or bullet does intend bodily harm, even in cases when it is “justified” as an action ultimately aimed at community safety. In this way there is a sense in which the term “violence” does apply, and applying it is a way of being honest about what we’re talking about.10 In short, this may point to the limitations of our initial working definition, and also to the uncomfortably close relationship between what it attempts to define (aggressive violence) and what may be rightly distinguished from it (defensive violence)—​even if more neutrally termed “force” or “coercion.” One way to analyze this basic distinction affirmed by the magisterial, just war traditions of Christianity is in terms of first-​order and second-​order violence.11 Let us use the term first-​order violence to refer to aggression, the use of force that antagonizes, oppresses, and violates. This is violence in the full sense of our working definition. Second-​order violence, by contrast, would refer to the use of harmful force that is provoked by first-​order violence. First-​ order violence is of an initiating sort, while second-​order violence is responsive in nature. The just war tradition focuses on rather straightforward forms of first-​ order violence—​one nation invading another, an organization attacking a people or country, or a group within a nation assaulting its structures, resources, territory, or well-​being. Within certain constraints, the just war tradition sanctions formal and institutionalized kinds of second-​order violence that are intended to be “redemptive” in the sense that they are intended to produce or restore a just peace. While a military response to an attack or serious threat is indeed intentional, (hopefully) reparative, second-​order violence, there are also less formal and less redemptive or reparative types of second-​order violence related to military aggression and even defense—​ indiscriminate forms of fighting, civilians acting harmfully toward one another due to psychological scarring, crime resulting from the destruction of social infrastructure, and so on. In other words, second-​order violence is a varied category even in a military context. Other forms of first-​order violence, however, are more subtle in nature than direct attack or threat, though still tremendously destructive, such as institutionalized structures of racism, sexism, and economic exploitation that more quietly and gradually harm people’s lives, both materially and psychologically.12 (It will be important for us to remember this so as to be

102  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence clear-​minded about Christian responsibility in the law enforcement form of sword-​bearing in Chapters 6 and 7.) Such systemic first-​order violence may provoke conscious constructive attempts to repair peace and justice, sometimes through second-​order violence, as for example in a slave revolt. But the second-​order response can also take the form of an accidental backlash that does little to change the situation and usually intensifies the harm to the main victims of the first-​order violence itself.13 Some instances of crime, for example, such as robbery, are often expressions of a sense of helplessness, social and economic marginalization, and even resentment about a state of affairs that appears to leave few better options. Leaving “white-​collar crime” aside, most robberies are not committed by people with economic and social stability, but by those who experience themselves as vulnerable in their social situation. Under those circumstances, some robberies may qualify as second-​order violence, a reaction to a social, political, and economic system that chips away at a person’s well-​being and hope until the person—​actively or tacitly—​decides that committing a crime is the best possibility, or perhaps that in a hopeless situation it makes little difference what one tries, so one might as well try something that could yield a short-​term gain. In other words, in this example, the structural violence that impoverishes is a first-​ order violence that begets such an act of robbery as a second-​order response. (Of course, in the interpersonal moment between the two direct parties involved, the robbery also functions as an act of first-​order violence, since nothing was directly done by the robbed person in that immediate moment to precipitate the violent act.) Even if second order in nature, such violence is certainly incidental and counterproductive rather than constructive, as it continues the spiral of violence by becoming its own first-​order violence, prompting further backlash and defense of the status quo, rather than providing any kind of hope of resolution, peace, and justice on the far side of the violence.14 It may be possible to interpret such senseless second-​order violence as a kind of (conscious or unconscious) attempt at revenge against the (silent, unseen) forces and persons that impoverish and oppress. From the perspective of the just war tradition, such expressions would be understandable but nevertheless wrong, just as seeking cruel revenge against an act of aggression by another nation is understandable but a breach of the just war ethic. Second-​order violence, if it is to be regarded as justified, must be constructively aimed at the creation, preservation, or restoration of peace and justice.15

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  103

The Ambiguity of Violence Even the ethical importance of a first-​order/​second-​order distinction does not obscure the cyclical and self-​begetting nature of any violence. In this regard, Jacques Ellul speaks—​perhaps too strongly—​of the “law” of violence. This “law,” in his view, is that “once you start using violence, you cannot get away from it.” It is a habit that “cannot quickly be broken.”16 It also includes “reciprocity,” by which Ellul means that “violence creates violence, begets and procreates violence. The violence of the colonialists creates the violence of the anticolonialists, which in turn exceeds that of the colonialists.”17 Similarly, Hannah Arendt stresses the unpredictability of violence: The danger of violence, even if it moves consciously within a nonextremist framework of short-​term goals, will always be that the means overwhelm the end. If goals are not achieved rapidly, the result will be not merely defeat but the introduction of the practice of violence into the whole body politic. . . . The practice of violence, like all action, changes the world, but the most probable change is to a more violent world.18

This is one of the reasons why Martin Luther King Jr. insisted on a nonviolent approach to the American civil rights struggle, as we saw in Chapter 2, with the means carefully calibrated so as to be in tune with the end of just peace. The just war tradition acknowledges this dynamic with its recognition of the danger of legitimate justified violence degenerating into unjustified counter-​aggression. Hence the restraints on both the ad bellum and in bello aspects of war, such as the insistence on having right intention in war or on the prohibition against targeting civilians. This is also why great care and sobriety is required when claiming that any form of second-​order violence can be “redemptive,” regardless of whether we have in mind justified war, police action, or an individual citizen’s forceful defense of an innocent victim who is being attacked in the streets. Ellul departs markedly from the just war tradition—​and from the value of any distinction between first-​and second-​ order violence—​in his insistence that “it is impossible to distinguish between justified and unjustified violence, between violence that liberates and violence that enslaves. . . . I maintain that all kinds of violence are the same.”19 Accordingly, Ellul concludes that violence can never produce positive ends,20 and that it can never be an expression of genuine love.21

104  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Yet the just war tradition affirms that possibility. Various examples would seem to confirm it: using second-​order violence to resist Hitler and Nazism brought a better situation to Europe (and probably the whole world) than if his aggressions and genocide had been left unchecked or merely resisted nonviolently.22 Despite the terrible slaughter (and mixed motives) of the American Civil War, using violence to end slavery in the United States brought about a needed liberation of the oppressed that would likely not have happened otherwise—​at least not for a long, long time. The just war tradition, in other words, finds a compelling logic in the idea of physical force—​including killing—​which we instinctively regard as “violence,” resulting in a greater good, a more just peace, a less violent status quo, when wielded in a concerted, organized, and restrained way with a reasonable chance of victory. Similarly, a police officer using physical force to stop a sexual assault would seem to be obviously preferable to letting that assault happen. As these defensive or responsive actions, once again, don’t fully fit with our initial definition of problematic violence, we may even choose to use euphemisms to describe them as something different from true violence—​force, coercion. But in our terms here, they are second-​order, not first-​order, violence. Whatever the case, the vagaries of both first-​and second-​ order violence make it hard to talk unambiguously about “good” or “redemptive” violence. While recognizing this point via its insistence on restraint, the just war mentality nevertheless insists that certain kinds of purposeful responsive or reparative violence, though never without risk, are better than allowing aggression, crime, and egregious injustice to run unchecked. Though still violent, second-​order violence is not the same as first-​order violence.

Jesus and (Non)violence Distinguishing between orders of violence, between that which more overtly “violates” and that which at least intends to repair, helps us to understand the issue and problem of violence more clearly. It also helps us to understand the deeper ethos of the just war tradition. But it does not by itself connect that tradition’s reasoning about violence to the teachings of Jesus that pertain to violence. In other words, its intuitive strength does not directly address its greatest theological and biblical vulnerability. We must therefore address the question of whether the just war ethic—​even if its sanctioned violence is of a second-​order rather than first-​order variety—​makes an end run around Jesus.

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  105

The Sermon on the Mount Let us first return to the relevant sections of Matthew 5, discussed in Chapter 2 with reference to the biblical foundations of Christian pacifism. Throughout that section of the Sermon on the Mount we find the words of Jesus intensifying the message of the Old Testament law and prophets: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished” (5:17–​18). From those verses on, the device that structures the rest of the chapter is Jesus introducing some element of the Torah or Jewish tradition with the words “You have heard that it was said . . . ,” followed by “But I say to you . . . ,” emphasizing Jesus’ own authority and depicting his teaching as the extension, correction, and completion of the Old Testament. Though these paragraphs are sometimes labeled as “antitheses,” such terminology obscures the fact that Jesus is not so much replacing or opposing the old law with his own teaching as using his own teaching to lead his hearers to the deeper and more radical truth of the law. Accordingly, in view of the Old Testament’s portrayal of some just and divinely sanctioned violence, we should be cautious about drawing the conclusion that Jesus is commanding pacifism.23 In the verses especially invoked by Christian pacifism (5:21–​48), Jesus intensifies the restraint required by the Old Testament law of retaliation, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” by commanding his followers, the renewed Israel, “Do not resist an evildoer” (v. 39). The Hebrew law of retaliation was originally intended to restrict retaliation to proportionate forms. Only one eye should be taken if that was the injury inflicted. What, then, does Jesus mean when he goes beyond the language of retaliation to that of resistance (and why does Luke’s version of the speech lack the line about nonresistance)? In fact, Hans Dieter Betz argues that in the broader context, “Do not retaliate” would be a more accurate translation, even in Matthew.24 But even if we stick with the customary translation, “Do not resist,” Douglas Hare suggests that one promising interpretation is that Jesus is challenging his followers to “suffer loss without seeking recourse in the courts.”25 He explains that the Jewish law of the time had translated the older law of physical retaliation into monetary form—​instead of literally taking an eye as recompense for an eye that was damaged, an appropriate payment would be made as compensation. Such compensation would be gained through the

106  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence courts, which are mentioned in verse 40’s reference to suing. Hare notes that getting slapped on the right cheek (a backhand from a right-​handed person) would have constituted a serious insult for which one could take the offender to court for compensation.26 This first possible interpretation appears to involve Jesus counseling his followers to absorb rather than respond to personal insults and offenses made against them. Both in its original context and in our context it is a radical and countercultural challenge, to be sure, one that goes against the grain of our natural instinct of self-​preservation and personal honor, and sinful forms of self-​assertion.27 But does it really extend to the public conduct of the state? That is, does it really forbid Christians from playing a role, as in the armed forces or police structures legitimated by just war teaching (and passages such as Rom. 13:1–​7), in the state’s work of using coercive second-​order violence to preserve or restore order and justice?28 If using the courts to respond to a personal injury is the focus of attention in these verses, it is hard to see that as equivalent to a state’s use of the “sword” to restrain evil by responding to serious acts of injustice and aggression that put all—​especially the marginalized—​at risk. Along these lines, Dale Allison contends that Jesus “is rather speaking about interpersonal relations and declaring that it is illegitimate for his followers to apply the lex talionis to their private problems. So he is not overthrowing the principle of equivalent compensation on an institutional level,” which is presupposed elsewhere in Matthew.29 Hare notes, however, that there is a second possible interpretation, one that is much more political in its flavor. He points out that the verse about offering one’s cloak in addition to the coat for which an opponent is suing (v. 40) is best taken as an instance of the figurative language of hyperbole, as it would leave the person who gave up his or her cloak totally and absurdly naked.30 Given the law and wisdom genre of the text, it is likely that the audience would have understood the teaching as generally applicable, but involving exceptions.31 Thus understood, it is a way of talking about “legal robbery,” which, when combined with the Gospel of Luke’s version of Jesus’ saying as a matter of someone just stealing the cloak (6:29), may be a figurative way of referring to Rome’s “plundering of Jewish Palestine.”32 This makes further sense in view of the next verse’s reference to the Roman military practice of forcing civilians to carry a soldier’s equipment. In this sense, Jesus’ challenge is to the Jewish revolutionary movement not to resist the Romans.33 As Hare writes, “Freedom fighters in his audience must have regarded him as a traitor.” Others, however, would have realized that Jesus’ point was mainly

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  107 a practical one: “Resistance to Rome was futile, and the nourishing of bitter resentment was self-​destructive.”34 According to Hare, these words about not resisting an evil person are meant “to shock the imagination and instill a profounder insight into God’s intention.” The figurative nature of some of the lines indicates that they are “not intended to be taken in their most literal sense”; but they are also not to be “domesticated” as “merely figurative”: “The old ways of retaliation and self-​protection must give way to a gentler, more magnanimous approach to those we deem enemies.”35 The political sense of these verses poses a stronger challenge to the just war mentality: returning first-​order violence with second-​order violence, though understandable, is not the only or even the best way to respond. However, the just war tradition’s inclusion of the “prudential” considerations of responsive violence being a “last resort” and the requirement of a reasonable chance of success36—​lest violence be merely vindictive rather than reparative—​brings this tradition at least into the neighborhood of Jesus’ words. The Jews of Jesus’ day had no chance of success against Rome—​as shown by Rome’s brutal suppression of the Jewish revolt in 69–​70 CE and its sacking of Jerusalem and destruction of the Temple, which had most likely happened before the Gospel of Matthew was written. Jesus punctuates the point with a final contrast, this time between the common interpretation of the old law as a matter of loving one’s neighbor and hating one’s enemies, and his better way: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (5:44). Hare argues that the surrounding context—​ the personal and political interpretations just discussed—​suggests that the enemies who are to be loved could be either political (i.e., the Romans) or personal (i.e., those who persecute or insult believers in Jesus). In relation to such enemies, Jesus calls for actions of love and prayer, both of which would transform how believers see those who are their enemies.37 Hare insists that the basis for Jesus’ words here is not the belief that treating enemies with love rather than hatred will disarm them or shock them into conversion. The root, rather more simply, is the nature of God, who sends sun and rain to both the good and the evil (v. 45). Being “children of your Father in heaven” involves similar behavior: “To become a son or a daughter of God, then, is to participate in the divine nature by reflecting God’s unconditional love for all made in God’s image.”38 In relation to such a reading, the Christian just war ethic demands a spirituality of fighting that regards enemies as sharing a common humanity and being worthy of basic respect (hence the tradition’s insistence on protecting prisoners of war). We might even appeal back to the counsels

108  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence of the Greco-​Roman classical tradition—​that fighting should be done in a way that sees the enemy as potential and future friends. This is a plausible way of reconciling just war teaching with these aspects of the Sermon on the Mount. But it would be claiming far too much to say that just war teaching is based on Jesus’ words here.39 In general, the just war tradition appeals to other elements of the Christian canon, other forms of reasoning, and other doctrines of the faith to suggest that these teachings of Jesus do not exhaust the “data” that Christians must sift through in figuring out an appropriate response to aggression.40 They must inform how Christians fight, and especially their demeanor before making the decision to fight; but in a broader theological perspective, the just war tradition argues, these words do not utterly prohibit fighting. In other words, the teaching of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount is not equivalent to the whole gospel of Christ. Scholars such as Richard Hays regard such an approach as an end run around the force of Jesus’ words. Jesus ends Chapter 5 of Matthew with a strong admonition: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (v. 48). And the whole Sermon ends with Jesus likening those who hear his words without acting upon them to the foolish man who builds his house upon the sand (7:24–​27). Hays emphasizes that Jesus’ own teachings are underlined and underscored by Jesus’ own action—​one that culminates with a costly, self-​sacrificial nonresistance to his enemies. Thus we must revisit a statement from Hays that was quoted in Chapter 2: “Jesus’ death is fully consistent with his teaching: he refuses to lift a finger in his own defense, scolds those who do try to defend him with the sword, and rejects calling down ‘legions of angels’ to fight a holy war against his enemies.”41 Similarly, Hays argues, the church is called to follow the example of Jesus rather than “nationalism, violence, and idolatry.”42 In order to respond to this strong challenge, we must explore more fully the logic of the imitatio Christi mindset that undergirds Christian pacifism’s use of the Sermon on the Mount.

The Imitatio Christi Ethic and Its Limits Our question here is about the deeper logic of the idea that the Christian moral life, or the Christian life in general, should be oriented around an imitating of Jesus. What is the rationale of such an approach, and are there any limits to how far it applies? And, of course, how does the imitatio Christi

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  109 ethic, which plays such a powerful role in Christian pacifism, its historic martyrs, and its vision of the nonviolent life of discipleship, relate to the just war convictions of magisterial Christianity? In the logic of discipleship, there is an analogy between the Christian’s life and fate, and the life and fate of Jesus, one that is more direct and dramatic in the stories of the martyrs than in the stories of Christians whose lives play out in more ordinary ways. In Chapter 2 we encountered the biblical rationale of the “imitation of Christ” motif. Jesus tells his original disciples and his disciples today, “Follow me.” He is also clear that following him involves “taking up the cross,” as he did. We are reminded by 1 John that those who claim to “abide” in Jesus “ought to walk just as he walked” (2:6). And Philippians 2 underscores the point that the “same mind” of Jesus ought to be replicated in the lives of his followers. They are cautioned to remember the resistance and persecution they are likely to confront as they attest to the kingdom of God, in echo of the costliness of Jesus’ own proclamation and embodiment of the kingdom. Many a Christian martyr text, especially in the Reformation period, quotes Jesus’ saying about servants and masters: If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own. Because you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world—​therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I said to you, “Servants are not greater than their master.” If they persecuted me, they will persecute you. (John 16:18–​20; cf. 13:16)

But with any analogy, amid similarity there is also crucial difference. In any analogy there is a critical distinction between the thing itself and what is compared to it. What is compared resembles and is thus illuminated by the thing that is the basis of the comparison, while of course often functioning to cast additional light on the thing itself. But it is not the thing itself. As disciples, Christians are called to follow Jesus and in so doing to shed light on him; but their own activity never stands in for the person and work of Jesus himself. While there is likeness, there is also asymmetry. At their best, the Christian martyrological traditions have kept this distinction and asymmetry clear. As we saw in Chapter 1, in the Polycarp document, the narrator likens Polycarp to Jesus in various ways (e.g., his betrayal by a Judas figure). But the text also clearly distinguishes the martyred bishop from the One to whom he witnesses, specifying that love may be directed to the martyr as one

110  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence who emulates and reflects Christ, but that worship goes to the latter alone.43 The servant resembles the master, but is not the master. The difference between imitator and imitated deepens when we consider the place of Christians in the full storyline of Jesus. To get at this point it will be worthwhile to reflect at some length on N. T. Wright’s well-​known model of the biblical text as resembling a five-​act play. (We will return periodically to this model in the remainder of this book.) Wright originally developed the model in order to construe the authority of the Bible in a way that fits more naturally with the narratival shape of the scriptural canon itself rather than by imposing concepts and constructs external to the Bible.44 He asks his readers to imagine the discovery of a long-​lost Shakespeare play with the fifth act missing. In such a case the best thing to do, he suggests, might not be to commission the writing of a replacement fifth act, but rather to commission a troupe of seasoned Shakespeare actors to improvise—​in the course of performance—​a fifth act that brings the narratival vectors of the first four acts to a suitable conclusion, one in keeping with the earlier story, one that is true to the characters as previously developed, and one that resonates with the very soul of Shakespeare’s literary corpus. By comparison, in his thought experiment Wright breaks the biblical metanarrative down into the following five “acts”: (1) creation, (2) sin, (3) Israel, (4) Jesus, and (5) church. Act 5, in turn, includes two scenes: (5A) the New Testament church and (5B) the subsequent church, including Christians today. The church of today, on Wright’s model, has been commissioned to improvise a performance of its part of Act 5B, a performance that should be governed by, and thus in narratival tune with, the previous acts and characters of the story. Wright even hints at the fact that an additional act is needed to round out the fullness of the story (though it complicates the analogy to a Shakespeare play). This final act is the eschaton, the renewal of creation as God’s kingdom and the final resurrection—​Act 6, as it were.45 The improvisation of the church in Act 5B must make sense in view of the plot lines and characters of the first four and a half acts and in view of the story’s intimations about the coming final act. Doing this requires recognizing that Act 5B occupies a particular place in the story line, one that is dependent upon and yet different from Act 4 and also different from Act 6. Most relevant to the question of the “imitation” of Christ is the relationship between Act 4 (Jesus) and Act 5 (church). On the one hand, the call for the servants to resemble the master points to the need for the participants of Act 5 to follow the lead of the protagonist of Act 4. The cruciform shape

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  111 of Jesus’ life and ministry is to be reflected in the life and mindset of the Christian. This aspect of the imitatio Christi is well represented in Christian martyr literature, where the experience of martyrs is frequently interpreted as a bearing of the cross. For example, third-​century bishop Fructuosus and his deacons are portrayed as extending their hands out in imitation of Christ’s cross as they are burned in a fiery furnace,46 as is Blandina in the earlier Martyrs of Lyons: “She seemed to hang there in the form of a cross, and by her fervent prayer she aroused intense enthusiasm in those who were undergoing their ordeal, for in their torment with their physical eyes they saw in the person of their sister him who was crucified for them.”47 At the same time, there is also a hope and assurance present in Act 5 that wasn’t available at the moment of Jesus’ cross in Act 4, precisely because of the eventual resurrection of Jesus later in Act 4. This cross/​resurrection dynamic explains why a sense of victory and triumph pervades the Christian martyrological traditions even as its protagonists’ cross-​bearing deaths are narrated. In the early church, for example, the death of a Christian named Montanus is framed by the narrator’s reminder that it was experienced “not as a day of martyrdom but of resurrection.”48 Blandina’s narrator is able to see not just horrific torture, but also communion with Christ, precisely because Jesus’ story did not end with the cross. So also in later accounts: In Martyrs’ Mirror, the short account of the Maelbouts sisters concludes with this line: “The persecutors and enemies of the truth deprived them of their lives, which, to please their Lord and redeemer, they willingly resigned, in the living hope and firm faith, that at the resurrection of the just, they should receive back into great glory these their corruptible members, which they here resigned for His name’s sake, and reign with God and His saints in eternity.”49 And a half millennium later Jon Sobrino speaks of Óscar Romero’s “resurrection” not so much as a future vindication, but as a compelling and transformative witness even now in the lives and clamor of the poor: “The life of Archbishop Romero today is like that of Jesus. It is a resurrected life. Archbishop Romero is risen from the dead. That is, he lives by pouring his spirit into the Salvadoran people.”50 These martyr accounts (from Act 5) differ markedly from Matthew’s and Mark’s account of Jesus’ “cry of dereliction” as he dies (earlier in Act 4). Due to the unique role of Jesus and the significance of the resurrection (later in Act 4, shaping Act 5), this sense of abandonment experienced by Jesus is something that the martyrs tend not to imitate. An imitation of that element of Jesus’ story would be to ignore the actual significance of Act 4. Jesus

112  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence experienced abandonment so that his followers would not have to. His resurrection makes assurance available for his followers amid their experience of the cross. This means that Act 5 has its own distinctive narratological shape, despite the fact that it bears significant resemblance to Act 4. As participants in Act 5, Christians and the church must not be confused with the protagonist of Act 4. They are not Jesus, but simply his servants. He plays a role that they cannot. Any bearing of the cross or imitating of Jesus in Act 5 is fundamentally transformed by the unique and unrepeatable events that close out Act 4 (cross, resurrection, ascension). Among other things, this relieves Christians of responsibility for the burden of thinking that we bring salvation or repair to the world. The call to emulate Christ’s life and its cruciform shape does not mean the demand to bear all of the world’s guilt and sin. The poignant and perplexing climax of Shusaku Endo’s novel Silence, which we briefly encountered in the previous chapter, illustrates this theme (spoiler alert). The novel’s protagonist, Father Rodrigues, arrested for being a Christian and a priest by authorities in early seventeenth-​century Japan, finds his firm resolve to die for Christ and to die like Christ to be challenged by an inscrutable test. One night as he is trying to sleep in prison, Rodrigues is kept awake by an annoying snoring sound. His amused translator eventually corrects him: it is not snoring, but rather the moaning of other Christians who are suspended upside down in the “pit,” and will remain in such slow torture, until Rodrigues apostatizes by rubbing his foot blasphemously on the fumie, an image of Christ and Mary.51 A fallen priest, Ferreira, who years before had succumbed during a similar ordeal, challenges Rodrigues: “You make yourself more important than them. You are preoccupied with your own salvation. If you say that you will apostatize, those people will be taken out of the pit. They will be saved from suffering. . . . A priest ought to live in imitation of Christ. . . . Certainly Christ would have apostatized for them.”52 The theological truth of Ferreira’s words—​if we trust Rodrigues’s experience—​is confirmed by the voice of Christ coming from the fumie as Rodrigues’s foot is raised: “Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world. It was to share men’s pain that I carried my cross.”53 While Endo the novelist plays his highest theological card in this episode, he does not let his readers off easy. For just as Rodrigues hears Christ’s voice, “Far in the distance a cock crew,” reminding us of Peter’s denial of Christ, the prediction of which Rodrigues had just pages earlier experienced as addressed to him.54 Is he denying Christ or following Christ—​or, tragically

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  113 and mysteriously, doing both at once? Is he pointing toward the fact that because of what Christ already did in Act 4, the following of him in Act 5 may, depending on circumstances, take different form than a strict imitation of him? Ferreira (a character in the story whose motivations we must weigh carefully) even suggests based on other elements of Jesus’ life that were Jesus in that different situation, he wouldn’t imitate himself, at least not the cross experience. It is as if Jesus being crucified means that Rodrigues doesn’t have to become a martyr.55 Given that the suffering of others was on the line, his proper following (in Act 5) ended up looking strikingly different from Jesus’ own path to the cross (in Act 4). In addition to the uniqueness and finality of Act 4 giving a different role and mindset to the participants in Act 5, we must also recognize the ongoing significance of Act 2 (sin). The sin of the world to which Jesus does not submit, but which brings him to his death, the sin of the world that Jesus defeats but has not yet been finally banished, remains a factor in the world and even in the life of the church and the followers of Jesus. Act 2 shapes the protagonists and particular responsibilities of Act 5 in ways that did not apply to the protagonist of Act 4.56 Christians continue to struggle with sin in their own lives and often find themselves at a loss in the face of the wounds and horrors that are present in God’s creation due to sin and its first-​order violence. The ongoing specter of Act 2 also bears on the relationship between Acts 5 and 6. The promised final resurrection and fulfilled reign of God hasn’t yet happened. The fullness of new creation that Jesus received through his resurrection, and which has been introduced to the church in a preliminary way through the Spirit, has not yet overtaken creation and remade human society into God’s obedient and flourishing kingdom. Existing between the resurrection scene of Act 4 and the creational resurrection of Act 6, the church and its world continue to reckon with the story’s antagonist introduced in Act 2: sin and evil. We will reflect further on this significance of Act 2 in the two remaining chapters, as it has played a crucial role in the “realist” traditions of Christian ethics, including the just war framework. If the Christian plays a different role in the narrative of the gospel than does Jesus himself, then “imitation” may actually not be the most apt overarching term to describe the calling of the Christian life in relation to the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Rather, participation may capture more accurately what the church and its members are invited to do in relation to the story of Jesus—​to participate in the reality that he has already created, a

114  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence reality of forgiveness, sanctification, justice, and hope in a world where injustice and violence persist. Participation, in turn, results from the Christian’s union with Christ (see Rom. 6:3–​11; 1 Cor. 6:12–​20). Union with Christ and participating in his reality includes, of course, moments of doing as Jesus did, but also with crucial difference. Karl Barth provides a helpful way to frame these matters. He writes the following in the Church Dogmatics in relation to the freedom and subjection of the Christian, as servant, in relation to Christ, the master: The formation and direction of a man by the Word of God, which becomes a reality with the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, has nothing to do with imitation. We must again insist that under this formation and direction man remains the man he is. His own nature and thinking and willing and feeling, both in general and in detail, is not lost. But in the light of this his own being, he remains a sinner before God. Yet this very being of his as a sinner before God is subjected to the Word of God, and is therefore formed and directed by that Word. And because the subordination and therefore the formation and direction are perfect, there takes place at this point what imitation intends but can never achieve: the master acquires a pupil, a servant, a scholar, a follower, in whom he finds himself again and in whom accordingly he, the master, can also be found again by others. But the master is the eternal Word, which has assumed flesh. We are not the eternal Word, but flesh of that flesh, which in Him was made partaker of the divine nature.57

Barth signals here both the indispensable insight of the imitatio Christi stream of thought—​namely, that being grasped by Christ in genuine union involves following him—​and the very place where the imitatio’s limitations should be in full view—​namely, that we are not Christ.58 Since we are not the Redeemer and, speaking with full precision, the work we do is not Redemption, there are limits to what we should and are able to “imitate” in the life and death of Christ. If what Jesus achieved through his incarnation, ministry, cross, and resurrection is unique, then our agency, the agency of Christ’s witnesses and his martyrs, only reflects and participates in the greater reality that Christ himself accomplished through his unique personhood and agency. The disciple is not the master. The disciple is called to pursue the kingdom established by the master. Reflecting in her own life the options and patterns of the master’s

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  115 own ministry is integral to the disciple’s calling, but that always takes place in her own situation and own role, a role that depends upon the master’s unique establishment of the kingdom.59 Analogy involves identification but not strict identity, as similarities are circumscribed and qualified by irreducible difference.

Christian Violence, Jesus, and the Biblical God It is worth considering, then, that Jesus’ rejection of violence may have to do with the particulars of his own redemptive mission, such that it is not necessarily a universalizable part of his story. It may be that much depends upon context, with Jesus’ nonviolent life sometimes summoning Christians to follow suit, but without such a stance exhausting the possible faithful forms of improvisation in Act 5 of the story. Were this not the case, then, as Nigel Biggar argues, we would expect all of the soldiers in the New Testament who turn to Jesus to be told to renounce their occupation.60 The fact that analogy involves similarity within the context of difference opens up the possibility that justified and restrained second-​order violence might be a way of participating in the triune God’s restorative purposes in the world, although such a claim is fraught with complexity, and we must take great caution in labeling such violence on our part as at all “redemptive.” Considering such a possibility is natural in view of certain features of what Richard Hays calls the broader “symbolic world” of the Bible.61 While Hays himself downplays its ultimate significance, we must recognize that the theme of divine violence, and violence commanded of Israel, is part of that symbolic world. It is part of its broad symbolic world because it was part of its historical world, especially in the Old Testament, when the nation of Israel was constantly threatened by foreign powers that endangered its very existence and the survival and flourishing of its people. Yahweh, the God whom Jesus makes most fully known, is frequently named as and compared to a warrior throughout the Old Testament canon.62 Indeed, “Yhwh Sabaoth” is a name that recurs with great frequency throughout the pages of the Old Testament. Though it is commonly translated as “Lord of Hosts” (NRSV, NASB) or “Lord Almighty” (NIV), it could legitimately be translated “Lord of Armies.” In a remarkable number of Israelite wars, it is Yahweh alone or mainly Yahweh who does the fighting.63 Yahweh’s divine battle is not only visited against the enemies of Israel, but

116  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence is sometimes used against Israel as discipline for unrighteousness or injustice.64 It is important to note that three of the four types of war that John Wood identifies in the Old Testament, usually as commanded by God, are broadly compatible with just war thinking (i.e., defensive wars, wars where aggressor Israel is defeated, and wars against Israel as judgment).65 And there is at least some indication that the fourth type (i.e., aggressive wars commanded by Yahweh) often had a moral reason underlying it.66 For example, Deuteronomy 9 tells Israel that “because of the wickedness of these nations the Lord your God is dispossessing them before you, in order to fulfill the promise that the Lord made on oath to your ancestors, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.”67 As Victor Paul Furnish points out, the sociopolitical situation of most of the Old Testament differs significantly from the situation of the New Testament, where the Jews lived without imminent threat of war as a result of already having been conquered and incorporated into a powerful world empire.68 For that reason, the theme of the divine warrior is more muted and often transmuted into more “spiritual” form. But it is not absent. The New Testament portrays the fight of God, the divine warrior, against evil, including the final judgment/​justice at the fulfillment of history.69 What is more, much of Jesus’ ministry depends upon and involves the holy war imagery of the Old Testament, even if it is mainly deployed in “spiritual” ways.70 And his rhetoric envisioned a day when God would painfully and even violently intervene to destroy the evil structures and forces of history. As Wood writes, “We find an emphasis in Matthew and Mark on Jesus as both peacemaker and Warrior-​Christ.”71 Moreover, the book of Revelation depicts Christ as a Lamb whose death ironically serves as the vanguard of God’s work, defeating the powers of evil and injustice in the world, a conquest that is aided by the blood of the martyrs.72 Wood contends that the warrior image of God in the Bible is related to God’s lordship, instituting and preserving order in the face of the threat of chaos. But it does not serve as a glorification or counsel to war.73 If Wood is correct, it seems that a just war framework does the best job of synthesizing the various key theological concerns that emerge in scripture.74 Here we are presented with the difficult problem of reconciling the portraits of God, with somewhat differing emphases, offered by the two portions of the Christian canon.75 Marcionite ways of resolving the problem by pitting the testaments against one another stumble on the centrality of steadfast love in the Old Testament’s depiction of God (most pivotally in

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  117 Exod. 34:6–​7 and its intra-​canonical echoes) and the presence of divine violence, both threatened and actual, in the New Testament (e.g., Acts 5:1–​5; Heb. 10:26–​31).76 Similarly, in both Old and New Testaments we encounter the rhetoric of violence. We could think here of the psalms of imprecation (e.g., Pss. 58 and 137), or the rather chilling conclusion of some of Jesus’ warnings and parables (e.g., Matt. 13:31–​43, 22:45–​51). Here we may also recall Augustine’s interpretation of Jesus’ calling of Saul/​Paul as an act of quasi-​ violent coercion. In short, it appears legitimate to say that the biblical canon, including the New Testament, reflects a second-​order divine violence aimed against the sin, injustice, and idolatry of the world. It is thus not surprising that the biblical theme of divine violence finds its way into the church’s historic martyr literature.77 It is especially prominent by the time of the Reformation. John Foxe, for example, interprets the slaying of Roman emperor Decius and his son as God’s punishment upon the emperor for his killing of Christians.78 Foxe reports that much later, during the reign of Queen Mary, a bishop who preached a sermon excoriating the Protestant martyr George Marsh shortly received the “just judgment of God” when “he turned up his heels and died.”79 Even some Anabaptist accounts make a pointed mention of the divine punishments immediately rendered upon their persecutors or expected upon Christ’s eventual return. For example, the narrator of the account of the martyrdom of John Schut in 1561 in Westphalia notes that a few days after Schut’s execution the judge who had sentenced him and mocked him died after being “struck with apoplexy . . . which by many was looked upon as the vengeance and punishment of God upon him.”80 Such violent divine punishment in this life is, according to Martyrs’ Mirror, simply a hollow echo of the “intolerable punishment” that all persecutors “have to expect at the coming of Christ from heaven.”81 In short, even with a hermeneutic that processes all of scripture christologically, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the overall teaching of scripture includes the possibility of violence sometimes being used righteously, at least by God and perhaps by human beings—​a claim that is fraught with no little danger and requires sundry qualifiers.82 If so, then an “imitation of Christ” motif that views Jesus’ own pacifism as normatively prescriptive for all Christians in all situations is more difficult to sustain, especially when we recognize the critical difference between Acts 4 and 5 of the Christian story, as well as the existential gap between Acts 5 and 6.

118  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence In other words, we must view our current situation both christologically and eschatologically—​two elements of Christian belief that can never be divided from one another. The kingdom has arrived in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus the master. But history still labors under sin and evil, with violence and injustice at work in the world, and at work in his servants. The discernment of the Christian life involves the recognition that witnessing to (and participating in) Christ’s kingdom may sometimes call for that costly and risky stance of nonviolence that addresses evil with the offering of one’s cheek to the hostility of the enemy; other times it may perhaps involve the costly and risky action of using second-​order violence to defend the possibility of social flourishing, including protecting the weak and disadvantaged, the widow and orphan, from injustice and further violence that threaten them. This is the perilous claim made by the just war tradition of Christian faith. This christological and eschatological rendering of life amid history’s turmoil involves acknowledging a tragic cast to life. The reality of evil may require us to meet force with force; but the reality of evil can also be met by forgiveness since the character of the kingdom has already been introduced into the world through the Lord who is at work in Christians. It may even be—​however paradoxical and unwieldy in practice—​that grace and forgiveness can be conveyed in and through the meeting of injustice with force. This eschatological between-​the-​times in which the church lives means, according to Biggar, that tools that will not be part of the final kingdom of God may have to be employed here and now, but also that the expectation of that day of definitive justice frees us from the quest for perfect justice and complete retribution through war.83 The possibility that mercy and second-​order violence can coincide is the conviction of the just war ethic of Christianity, with its limits and restraints upon violence working to convey, however haltingly and imperfectly, the presence of grace amid the pain of this world. This insight from magisterial Christianity needs to be scrutinized because of its association with a Christendom mentality that may sometimes have lost sight of the critical edge of the Sermon on the Mount and prematurely covered state power with only a thin theological veneer. But at its best, the just war mindset has been a peace-​motivated concession to living amid sin and aggression prior to the eschaton.84 And if this tradition is correct, it may leave open in a delicate way the possibility of violence being employed in the Christian life en route to genuine martyrdom.

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Weighing the Just War Ethic What, then, does this discussion suggest about the status of just war thinking in relation to the main sources and norms of Christian conviction?85 It is clear that it occupies a position of privilege in mainstream Christian tradition. Inasmuch as “tradition” is a source and norm (albeit norma normata) for Christian theology and the Christian life, there is historical grounding and precedent for the just war belief that there are occasions when sanctioned, purposeful, and restrained second-​order violence is congruent with the life of discipleship. With respect to the biblical text—​in most expressions of Christianity the primary norm of theology and discipleship (the norma non normata)—​the situation appears to be somewhat indeterminate.86 While it is possible to point to the presence of divinely sanctioned violence throughout the canon, possible to marshal Romans 13’s portrayal of God’s ordaining of the sword, and possible to read the life, teaching, and ministry of Jesus in a serious way that does not lead to the mandate of absolute nonviolence, honesty requires admitting that the Sermon on the Mount problematizes the Christian’s participation in violence, even with the most noble purpose and restraint. Though the preceding section indicates why I do not think that the pacifist arguments of Hays, for example, are fully persuasive, I hope that it does show that I find such arguments to be a persistent challenge to my belief that there are times and forms of second-​order violence to which Christians may be called. The pacifist voice, especially its reading of Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount, perhaps ought to be a perennial thorn in the side of just war instincts. At the same time, it should be clear that it is overly simplistic to say that Constantine’s conversion and the emergence of the structures of Christendom represented a wholesale disregard for biblical teaching and a full regression of Christianity’s stance on violence—​even if on some occasions that new form of Christian faith may not have allowed the distinctive resources of the gospel to sufficiently leaven its justification and deployment of the sword. There is indeed something strange, ironic, more than vaguely troubling about the church of the martyrs sanctioning the Christian wielding of the sword. At the same time, in a world of disorder, sin, competing interests, in a world of first-​order violence, what ought Christian political responsibility to look like? It may be appropriate, then, to place the main positions on war, both pacifism and just war, in the category of “adiaphoron.” This term was especially applied

120  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence in the context of Reformation-​era Lutheran, Calvinist, and Anglican debates about what should be regarded as the essential tenets of the (Protestant) gospel on which there should be no disagreement.87 Positions around the edges, on which reasonable, faithful, and well-​meaning Christians could disagree, but without those disagreements threatening the core of Christian identity, were sometimes labeled “adiaphora,” literally “things indifferent,” nonessential or secondary matters that call for Christian toleration. “Adiaphora” did not mean then, nor should it mean now, that such matters on which it is possible to agree to disagree were unimportant. Questions of whether and how to wield the frightful power of the sword, to draw upon the ambiguities of violence, are lethally important, both for the body and for the soul. But the sources of Christian thinking and living—​the biblical canon, the voices of the tradition, the dictates of reason, and the wisdom of experience (to employ the best-​known methodological “quadrilateral”)—​make different conclusions on this topic plausible. As with any theological topic that the churches might allow as an adiaphoron, the participants in the argument have much to say to one another. In this case, it may not be far off the mark to say that the differing viewpoints on violence can function as one another’s external “consciences.”88 If just war reasoning is theologically legitimate, it is nevertheless checked and challenged by the pacifist voice.89 Even a vocal opponent of pacifism like Reinhold Niebuhr recognized this point when he acknowledged that biblical (as opposed to liberal, optimistic) pacifism reminds us that it is a terrible thing to take human life. The conflict between man and man and nation and nation is tragic. If there are men who declare that, no matter what the consequences, they cannot bring themselves to participate in this slaughter, the Church ought to be able to say to the general community: We quite understand this scruple and we respect it. . . . We who allow ourselves to become engaged in war need this testimony of the absolutist against us, lest we accept the warfare of the world as normative, lest we become callous to the horror of war, and lest we forget the ambiguity of our own actions and motives and the risk we run of achieving no permanent good from this momentary anarchy in which we are involved.90

However, in relation to the pacifist reading of Jesus’ command “Do not resist an evildoer,” the magisterial traditions of Christianity have their own check and challenge to offer. The main force of the challenge is aptly summarized by R. John Elford: “The central problem for all types of Christian and other

Violence, Jesus, and Just War Reasoning  121 pacifists is whether or not and under what circumstances responsible citizenship is compatible with pacifism in a largely nonpacifist world where the peace, and the freedom of conscience on which pacifism depends, is largely wrought by military constraint of one sort or another.”91 It seems, then, that the interpretive strategy on each side of this conversation involves a distinctive gamble. On the just war side, the view is that the nonresistance that Jesus is talking about has to do with the use of courts in relation to personal affronts or the use of revolutionary violence in a situation where there is scant likelihood of success. From this perspective, Jesus’ words are not to be taken as a universally normative command. Undergirding this is a reasoning process that concludes that not resisting evildoers in general would be absurd. Should I really not intervene forcefully if I see a child being assaulted? Should we really not have armed police officers to confront crimes such as assault and murder? Should we really not use force to keep weapons of mass destruction out of the hands of unstable tyrants? And if God really ordained such expressions of the “sword,” why wouldn’t Christians, if so called and qualified, be able to occupy that office? Total nonresistance, in short, would amount to a senseless absurdity. But the just war tradition’s belief that taking “Do not resist an evildoer” as a universal law would be absurd involves the gamble that we might be wrong and thus guilty of ignoring the force of Jesus’ words and disobedient to his command. Though I do not believe this to be the case, it is not a gamble to take lightly. In finding a different sense and scope for these verses, we could be guilty of twisting the scriptural text to fit with our insecure and fearful sinful instincts. The pacifist reading of the text, on the other hand, takes Jesus’ words as a command for his disciples, one that they must follow out of faithfulness to their Lord and the new form of existence to which he calls them. Though it is countercultural, according to the peace church traditions, the command of Jesus is not absurd but rather a marker of a transformed existence that lives out the Lord’s prayer for the kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven. But the pacifist tradition’s claim that “Do not resist an evildoer” can and should be taken straightforwardly and politically involves the gamble that such an interpretation is not in fact absurd. Should that gamble not be correct, then the guilt would be that of blood, the blood of innocents, on our hands—​also a perilous gamble. Our final two chapters explore ways in which where and when we are willing to apply the language of martyrdom indicates how we weigh the gambles on the just war side of things.

6 Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom in the Real World In its defense of just war logic and a non-​pacifist reading of the Bible, the previous chapter outlined some limitations of an imitatio Christi ethic that appear when we consider the overall dynamic and progression of the biblical storyline. The propriety of using the imitating of Jesus as the primary guide for the Christian life is diminished when we bear in mind the critical christological difference between ourselves and Jesus, as well as the significance of the fact that we live in the haziness of the eschatological “not yet.” The ambiguity of the “not yet” is probably the main reason why Christian ethics, at least in the mainstream, magisterial traditions, has usually allowed for an element of what we might call the “tragic” in its understanding of the Christian life and faithful Christian behavior. Such a sense of tragedy includes a recognition of the variegated face of violence in our world. In a Christian vision of reality, the problem of first-​order violence belongs to a broader recognition of how sin and evil infect every area of life, affecting every aspect of human community, culture, persons. The world, in other words, exists in a sick and fractured condition. The healing and repair of its brokenness have already begun decisively through Israel, Jesus, and the moving of the Spirit. But until the full arrival of God’s kingdom, the fractures and wounds remain within the world and in ourselves. Christian action in the world is called to participate in the healing of those wounds. What is often called a “realist” understanding of the Christian moral life argues that faithful Christian behavior sadly may sometimes have to draw upon elements of that brokenness, including second-​order violence. The task of this chapter is to show how the vision of current reality at work in Christian realism undergirds the just war ethic.1 We will also consider how Christian realism bears on a conception of sainthood, including martyrdom, and how that sense of martyrdom as a spotlight upon the faithful Christian life should affect the way we acknowledge the tragic elements of the real world . . . and of ourselves.

Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0007

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  123

Christian “Realism” In our exploration of the history and logic of the just war, we have repeatedly encountered the voice of the patristic thinker most often associated with “realist” perspectives in the West—​Augustine. In Chapter 3 we examined Augustine’s rather matter-​of-​fact willingness to approve of imperial violence in an effort to suppress what he regarded as dangerous and divisive heresies, as well as his broader countenancing of what I have called second-​order violence in quest of justice and social stability. This willingness found its deeper theological moorings, as we also saw in that chapter, in Augustine’s picture of the relationship between the two “cities” whose interplay gives shape to history. The “city of the world” represents the impulse of sinful humanity to pursue love of self, while the “city of God” represents the peace, grace, and justice of God that have invaded history. The church is the community called to serve as a channel of the ways of God, and thus is one of the means by which the ethos of the heavenly city influences the sinful world. But being situated in the world, amid its ambiguity, selfishness, and violence, the church is still subject to sin. Though it is subject to sin, it is also called to participate in resisting the disorder and violence of sin, sometimes through undesirable and lamentable means. Sin is a condition whose full healing the church still awaits and an aspect of the world that it both resists and must sometimes employ for the greater good. The reality of the situation of the church and its members here and now is that they exist in the tensive overlap between the two “cities.”

Niebuhrian Realism Reinhold Niebuhr attempted to appropriate Augustine’s solemn vision for the late modern age, against the backdrop of the conflicts and social ferment of the mid-​twentieth century. Niebuhr argued for a “prophetic” Christianity that understands the utopian “law of love” proclaimed by Jesus, as in the Sermon on the Mount, as an “impossible ideal” under the actual conditions of history. Being “impossible,” it cannot fully be achieved here and now. But as an “ideal,” it nevertheless prods the Christian community to strive for closer and better approximations of love.2 “Justice,” says Niebuhr, is the word for those approximations of love under the conditions of a broken world still awaiting full redemption. There are thus limits to what can be achieved given

124  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the parameters and conflicts of history.3 An example that Niebuhr offers is the “corrective justice” of criminals. It ought to be a rehabilitative expression of the command to “love your enemies.” However, it can never fully avoid the corruptive effect of some “vindictive passion” rooted in “primitive vengeance.”4 In Niebuhr’s framework, the ideal of the Sermon on the Mount and the command of love provide a horizon, goal, and critical principle for Christian contributions to what the human community, amid the contingencies and ambiguities of history, can only attain in the ever imperfect though still important form of justice. Justice, in turn, involves the use of power and forms of coercion. Though he recognizes the need for force in resisting aggression, Niebuhr’s realism includes some accents that aren’t always evident in expressions of the just war tradition.5 While the just war tradition may acknowledge the (second-​ order) violence of war as lamentable, it can give the impression that it is unambiguously “right” to use such violence when the criteria of the just war are met.6 For example, given the serious and egregious nature of the aggressions of Nazi Germany, it was right for the Allies to use military force in response. Niebuhr, however, consistently reminds us that such responsive violence, even when “necessary,” is only ever “relatively right,” still stands under the critical edge of Christ’s law of love, and requires awareness of our own complicity. The justice of “our” side and rightfully using force does not mean that “we” are without guilt. To extend the previous example, then, the harsh, humiliating, and unnecessary terms forced upon Germany in the Treaty of Versailles by the victors of World War I played a role in fostering resentment and shame that Hitler capitalized upon in his rise to power.7 Though using second-​order violence to resist and defeat Nazi Germany was the right thing to do, the nations that did so were not innocent and without responsibility. The Christian is in need of forgiveness even when she is acting relatively rightly. Niebuhr describes this as “the demand that the evil in the other shall be borne without vindictiveness because the evil in the self is known.”8 A Niebuhrian style of realism, in short, resists illusions of Christian perfection and allows ample room for an element of the “tragic” in human life—​ and, accordingly, in the Christian life.9 The evil that the moral life attempts to resist or keep at bay is not just “out there” in the world, with only an external relationship to the Christian. It is thus not the kind of thing that can be opposed solely by good, as in a Manichaean stand-​off. When the world’s evil takes the form of injustice and sociopolitical aggression, it is rarely something that we can restrict to the enemy; more often, it is a phenomenon that is

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  125 webbed through the world, our world, in which we participate and are complicit, with the side of relative justice wittingly and unwittingly contributing to the aggressions of the unjust, and the relatively unjust having some kind of meaningful claim to justice even amid their aggressions.10 In a world that traffics in such subtle shades of gray, we must restrain our judgments about Good and Evil, Us and Them, and restrict ourselves to more modest claims of relative justice and injustice, evil and good. Whatever evil exists in the world, producing injustice and terrifying forms of violence, is also a reality that we find within ourselves, at both an individual and a collective level. It is something that is present in us as persons and in the structures and institutions that we inhabit. That means that violence is not only a reality that we may occasionally be compelled to employ in the ever-​imperfect quest for better forms of justice, but also a reality that distorts us. On this view of the matter, to use second-​order violence is to deploy unfortunate means that are involved in the evil of the world (and our evil). When done more or less rightly, it is used in a sober quest of good (order, justice, the possibility of peace and social flourishing) and offered as a form of faithfulness, painful and imperfect faithfulness in a tragic world. Inasmuch as something like this framework has been held in the magisterial Christian world, we may here see the reason why penance was required of soldiers, even those fighting rightfully in a just war, before receiving the Eucharist.11 And on this view of things, first-​and second-​order violence have a tendency to shade into one another, and thus while there is a justifiable distinction, there is never perfect difference.

Bonhoeffer on Concrete Responsibility We encounter similar claims, but drawn from an even deeper theological well, in the moral theology of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who also recognized the ambiguous shape of life, choices, and actions in the real world. Especially in the chapter “History and Good” in his Ethics, Bonhoeffer rejects the “abstract notion of an isolated individual who, wielding an absolute criterion of what is good in and of itself, chooses continually and exclusively between this clearly recognized good and an evil recognized with equal clarity.”12 Rather, he argues, “Responsible action takes place in the sphere of relativity, completely shrouded in the twilight that the historical situation casts upon good and evil.”13

126  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Bonhoeffer, however, rejected the term “tragic” as way of describing Christian ethics, even amid the relativities of life that he acknowledges. Rather, he insists that the “unity of Christian life and action . . . is not tragic at all.” The notion of tragedy he has in mind is that of ancient Greek literature, both its sense of humanity’s fatedness in the face of contradictory forces and the sense that the human moral agent will be “destroyed” by such forces.14 For Bonhoeffer, the problem with such forms of tragedy or realism is that they do not frame reality in christological terms. True reality, he insists, is none other than Christ, because in him God became human.15 While Bonhoeffer agrees that ethics involves acting in accord with reality, first and foremost this means acting in accord with Christ, as the incarnation is the most fundamental truth about reality.16 Seeing the reality of the world as bound up with Christ enables the Christian to allow the world to be what it is, the world. For Bonhoeffer this is not merely a creational point but an incarnational point—​“that the world is loved, judged, and reconciled in Jesus Christ by God.”17 In short, what I am calling Bonhoeffer’s “realism” isn’t simply a matter of taking into account the necessities and imperfections of the world and history. Most fundamentally, being in accord with reality is a matter of taking account of the theological and christological truth about it: “We can no longer speak about our life other than in this relation to Jesus Christ. Apart from Christ as the origin, essence, and goal of life, of our life, and apart from the fact that we are creatures who are reconciled and redeemed, we can only arrive at biological or ideological abstractions.”18 This most real truth about the human situation rules out a secular conception of “tragedy” in Christian ethics.19 While a secular sense of tragedy might focus on the inevitability and universality of “dirty hands,” Bonhoeffer thinks that our focus should be on Christ’s cleansing of those hands. Christ makes possible a unity of life and action amid the actual vicissitudes of life in the real world.20 As we shall see, Bonhoeffer’s proposal actually points toward a Christian notion of tragedy despite his distaste for such language. Nonetheless, his own preferred language is that of “responsible action.” Responsibility, according to Bonhoeffer, is a life “lived in answer to the life of Jesus Christ” as the judge and redeemer of the world. To live such a life of “answer” means to see our lives and actions—​our very selves—​as bound to God and others. As a moral agent, the responsible Christian is not a solitary individual, but one who acts with and on behalf of others. Bonhoeffer calls this “vicarious representative action.” As with every feature of Bonhoeffer’s account, Jesus is the root and paradigm of this aspect of responsibility: “Jesus

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  127 was not the individual who sought to achieve some personal perfection, but only lived as the one who in himself has taken on and bears the selves of all human beings.” Accordingly, the responsible Christian is called to live for the well-​being of others. This essentially relational structure of life is not abstract, aimed toward humanity in general, but rather directed toward “concrete neighbors in their concrete reality.”21 How to do this faithfully can never be scripted beforehand based on abstract principles, but is only worked out in the unfolding of a situation in the world. The “vicarious” or “representative” character of responsible action is closely linked with a willingness to take on the guilt of others. Becoming guilty is a marker of true responsibility. Once again, for Bonhoeffer—​who remains consistent on this point—​the root and paradigm of this dimension of responsible action is Jesus Christ. Jesus’ primary concern is “not his own goodness, but solely love for real human beings. This is why he is able to enter into the community of human beings’ guilt, willing to be burdened with their guilt.” As Jesus’ willingness to accept the guilt of the human situation flows from his love, so also responsible action enters into the “community of human guilt.”22 One facet of this that Bonhoeffer explains earlier in Ethics is that the sin of each individual is “poison” for the community.23 Confessing one’s personal guilt—​when done honestly and with Christ in view—​naturally leads the confessor to see himself as guilty for the ills of the world. Accordingly, “becoming guilty” includes both personal guilt and vicarious guilt. It is an acknowledged and accepted guilt, rather than one that is denied or rationalized away. Rather than the guilt of permanent alienation, however, it is guilt encompassed by Christ’s reconciliation, dirty hands that are being cleansed. This requires a clarified sense of conscience. Conscience, as we often think of it, is a moral compass aimed at avoiding guilt. Bonhoeffer, however, rejects this notion of conscience—​that of the personal ego seeking to avoid guilt via knowing good and evil in a self-​justifying way. A proper sense of conscience, he argues, is “the call of human existence for unity with itself,” which is found in Christ, where one’s ego is surrendered to God and others.24 In this surrender, the conscience is set free from a legalistic sense of obligation and is instead “wide open to the neighbor and the neighbor’s concrete distress.” It is not my own moral purity and objective rightness that is the goal, but rather acting boldly and freely for the benefit of those in need. When freed by Christ, the Christian conscience will “most clearly exhibit its innocence precisely in responsibly accepting culpability.”25 Bonhoeffer’s sense of Christian

128  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence action amid the vagaries of history thus has—​by virtue of union with Christ, clear admission of guilt, and the assurance of forgiveness—​a centering rather than alienating quality to it. Thus any sense of “tragedy” that we might glean from him differs radically from the classical Greek sense that he rejects. How do these categories of responsibility, guilt, and forgiveness inform what it means to decide and act within the world? The paradigm of Christ entering into the world’s guilt enables the Christian to throw herself into the guilt of the world in freedom. Christian responsibility involves “genuine decision in which the whole person, with both understanding and will, seeks and finds what is good only in the very risk of the action itself, within the ambiguity of a historical situation.”26 The relativities of the world, as well as the Christian’s responsibility to particular times, places, people, and situations, mean that laws and principles are of limited value for the moral life. Here we see the contextual character of Bonhoeffer’s account of Christian ethics, as opposed to more straightforward deontological approaches that hinge mainly on principles or rules. “Those who are responsible,” Bonhoeffer writes, act in their own freedom, without the support of people, conditions, or principles, but nevertheless considering all existing circumstances related to people, general conditions, or principles. That nothing comes to their defense or exoneration, other than their own action and person, is proof of their freedom. They themselves have to observe, judge, weigh, decide, and act on their own.27

Principles, guidelines, and laws never prescribe what responsible action is in a situation. Indeed, in some cases, according to Bonhoeffer, true responsibility is shown in violating general laws and principles: There are occasions when, in the course of historical life, the strict observance of the explicit law of a state, a corporation, a family, but also of a scientific discovery, entails a clash with the basic necessities of human life. In such cases, appropriate responsible action departs from the domain governed by laws and principles, from the normal and regular, and instead is confronted with the extraordinary situation of ultimate necessities that are beyond any possible regulation by law.28

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  129 It is in this discussion that Bonhoeffer employs the just war terminology of “last resort” (ultima ratio). In such circumstances, which Bonhoeffer refers to as “borderline cases,” the ordinary rules of thumb do not adequately guide us. He uses the example of war as the ultima ratio in politics, but also gives the example of deception and breaking a treaty. In such cases, it is the gravity of an extreme situation that renders such ruptures of the norm “necessary.” As they rupture the norm, such actions stand “beyond the laws of reason; it is irrational action. It would now be a complete and total misunderstanding if the ultima ratio itself were again turned into a rational law, if the borderline case were made the norm.”29 Beyond reason, however, does not mean beyond reasoning, but beyond the reach and sanction of generally applicable laws and principles. In such a situation, responsible action stands beyond obvious good and evil: “Responsible action must decide not simply between right and wrong, good and evil, but between right and right, wrong and wrong.” Similarly, “the self-​denial of those who act responsibly includes choosing something relatively better over something relatively worse, and recognizing that the ‘absolute good’ may be exactly the worst.”30 In this realm of action within the moral “twilight,” Bonhoeffer sees the rejection of self-​justification and self-​exoneration as a marker of responsible Christian behavior. Acting responsibly means doing what is thought best for human life in creation amid the pressures of the situation, with only a plea for the mercy and forgiveness of Christ at one’s disposal. “Whereas all action based on ideology is already justified by its own principle, responsible action renounces any knowledge about its ultimate justification.” Rather, the actor “must completely surrender such judgment to God.”31 Bonhoeffer gives an extended example of lying.32 He appeals to the common reading of Immanuel Kant—​in the latter’s rational analysis of the coherence of the categorical imperative—​as forbidding lying to save a friend from a murderer.33 Adhering so slavishly to the principle of truthfulness, says Bonhoeffer, would produce the “grotesque conclusion” of remaining truthful and allowing a murder to take place. In such a case, the principle of truthfulness stands in the way of truly responsible action. Responsible action, rather, involves lying “energetically” for the sake of a potential victim. However, Bonhoeffer does not mean that in such a case lying becomes good or that the falsehood is not really lying. It involves taking on guilt for the sake of the other: “Here . . . a conscience bound to Christ alone will most clearly exhibit its innocence precisely in responsibly accepting culpability.”34 Responsible action, amid the vagaries and unhappy necessities of history, means living

130  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence only by grace and forgiveness. “Those who act out of free responsibility are justified before others by dire necessity; before themselves they are acquitted by their conscience, but before God they hope only for grace.”35 Even when discernment of responsibility leads us to obey the law, for Bonhoeffer it stands in the same situation, under God’s judgment and needful of grace. What Bonhoeffer offers us, in the end, is a more thoroughly theological and christological conception of the “tragedy” of Christian moral decision in the real world of sin and finitude, that is, in the real world of first-​order violence and imperfect justice. His own objection to the terminology of “tragedy” is directed against a conception of tragedy where human existence, including Christian action, is crushed without remainder by the forces of the world. The availability of grace and forgiveness from a God who has entered into the guilt of history means, for Bonhoeffer, that Christian action, participating as it does in that God’s historic incarnation, is not crushed but healed. However, many features of Bonhoeffer’s account are aptly captured by the term “tragic.” He speaks frequently of the “risk” of action amid the “ambiguity” and “relativity” of the world. He writes forthrightly about the impossibility of discerning crystal-​clear Good and Evil in the real world. In his earlier draft of “History and Good,” Bonhoeffer even wrote of the “intrinsically hopeless predicament facing all who bear responsibility in a particular historical context, namely, the predicament of having to do the good without being able to do it.”36 The difference, in Bonhoeffer’s mind, is the possibility of grace and peace within the haze of responsible action. In short, he offers a more appropriately Christian conception of tragedy, tragedy ultimately converted into comedy. The availability of Christ’s grace now and the promise of Christ’s definitive eschatological triumph mean that analysis of Christian action cannot be reduced to the clash of incompatible laws. While recognizing the incompatibilities that we must negotiate, Bonhoeffer resists giving the impression that they are the definitive word about our lives and choices, even now. Here martyrdom is again a useful theological symptom and spotlight. The possibility of genuine martyrdom amid the “tragedy” of history, even participation in second-​order violence, would rest upon the conviction that Christ’s unifying forgiveness is possible even within the ambiguous fray of the world. How does Bonhoeffer’s picture of the “reality” of Christian ethics relate to questions of war and violence? Attuned as he was to the Sermon on the Mount, Bonhoeffer was always attracted by pacifism.37 The later stages in his short career are sometimes taken to reflect a “shift” away from pacifism,

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  131 especially in view of his participation in the German resistance. As the resistance pursued several unsuccessful attempts to assassinate Hitler, Bonhoeffer’s peripheral role led to his arrest in 1943 and eventual execution in 1945. The debate about Bonhoeffer on peace and violence resurfaced recently due to a book by Mark Thiessen Nation, Anthony Siegrist, and Daniel Umbel titled Bonhoeffer the Assassin? Challenging the Myth, Recovering His Call to Peacemaking.38 In their survey of the “serious” assassination attempts during the Third Reich, Nation and his coauthors conclude that there is “no evidence” of Bonhoeffer undertaking “actions that contributed directly to attempts to kill Hitler.”39 Clifford Green, however, has persuasively contested their portrait of Bonhoeffer.40 In addition to showing Bonhoeffer’s indirect involvement in plots against Hitler (with directness or indirectness being somewhat beside the point, as complicity is implied by any type of involvement), Green contends that it is better to talk of Bonhoeffer’s “peace ethic.” He argues that Bonhoeffer’s peace ethic, even early in his career, was not inconsistent with the use of violence to take down a tyrant. Green offers the example of Bonhoeffer telling his students that “a final answer to the question of whether a Christian should or should not participate [in war] must be rejected. Both answers are possible,” though both answers have temptations that must be avoided—​“militarism” and “doctrinaire pacifism.”41 Such a statement rests comfortably in the just war tradition. Similarly, his own unwillingness to sign up for the military was, according to Green, always couched in the language of “under the present circumstances,” which suggested that “under different circumstances, his decision could be different.”42 Though Green does not use this category, we can see Bonhoeffer’s refusal to enlist as an expression of selective conscientious objection, given his belief of the injustice of the German regime under Nazism. In contrast to a doctrinaire pacifism, Green concludes, Bonhoeffer’s “peace ethic” is a more contextual matter that flows from his view of God’s will, just as Bonhoeffer regarded the issue of lying to save a life from violence as a contextual discernment of what is needed rather than something that could be deontologically pre-​scripted.43 To this point, throughout Ethics Bonhoeffer employs war and other political uses of force or (second-​order) violence as examples of the inner tensions involved in responsible action. Early in the book, as he is analyzing the Western world’s falling away from a theocentric mooring, he explains the rationale and restraint of just war, and the danger of the slip toward

132  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence total wars of annihilation made possible by the West’s “decay.”44 In his discussion of the rights of “natural life,” he distinguishes “arbitrary killing” from the kind of killing that takes place in war (including unintentional killing of civilians) and policing.45 At the end of the earlier draft of “History and Good,” Bonhoeffer reflects on the incarnational truth that God’s love becomes genuinely human in history. This, he says, enables us to avoid the false dilemma of “self-​affirmation as the only law of political action and self-​denial as the only law of Christian action.” In contrast, he states, “Only where the becoming human of God’s love is taken seriously can it be understood that God’s love for the world also includes political action, and that the worldly form of Christian love is therefore able to take the form of a person fighting for self-​assertion, power, success, and security.” Lest this be misunderstood as merely personal power or security, Bonhoeffer follows it up with the notion of responsibility for others, for the common good: “Power is to serve responsibility.”46 Elsewhere Bonhoeffer says (reflecting on a statement by British prime minister Stanley Baldwin) that one who denies the possibility of force being necessary as a last resort would be “a dreamer and not a statesman.”47 In his discussion of the occasional need for the law—​even the biblical law of God—​to be broken in the course of responsible action, he writes: In war, for example, there is killing, lying, and seizing of property solely in order to reinstate the validity of life, truth, and property. Breaking the law [of ordinary life’s expectation of peaceableness] must be recognized in all its gravity. . . . Whether an action springs from responsibility or cynicism can become evident only in whether the objective guilt one incurs by breaking the law is recognized and borne, and whether by the very act of breaking it the law is sanctified. . . . Precisely because we are dealing with a deed that arises from freedom, the one who acts is not torn apart by destructive conflict, but instead can with confidence and inner integrity do the unspeakable, namely, in the very act of breaking the law to sanctify it.48

Finally, the guilt of war, Bonhoeffer implies, is not simply that it breaks the ordinary law of God (for reasons of last resort and necessity), but also that the church bears responsibility for the situation that precipitates war.49 In short, Bonhoeffer’s own version of Christian realism and what I still think is worth calling the tragedy of life—​albeit healed and unified by Christ—​includes a sense of war and violence as lamentable facets of life in a

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  133 broken world. That is, his reflections on war reflect the magisterial tradition’s just war reasoning. What Bonhoeffer offers, however, is a helpful analysis of what is involved in the Christian person’s decision to wage war, to serve as a soldier, to serve as a police officer, and within those occupations to decide to employ second-​order violence in the service of human life. He is clear that such actions are symptomatic of the broader fractured human condition; when undertaken responsibly, they strive to serve concrete human lives in the midst of an ambiguous world. What the police officer or soldier does is not different in principle from the imperfect decisions that the businessperson or teacher must make from time to time.50 The greater good and lesser evil must be ventured over against the poles of an impossible best and an undesirable worst. In so acting, the Christian opens herself to God’s will and Christ’s forgiveness in the awareness that acting responsibly in any sphere of life—​not only those that deploy violence—​involves the incurring of guilt, both vicarious guilt and personal guilt. Even if acting in accord with principles, the agent is never exonerated from the responsibility to choose boldly in view of Christ’s judgment and forgiveness. One weakness in Bonhoeffer’s account of these slippery matters is the vagueness of some of his statements related to contextuality. We must remember, of course, that we are reading unfinalized drafts written in tumultuous times and painful circumstances, including prison. But it is not entirely clear, for example, what it means to “soberly and simply [do] what is in accord with reality.” Similarly, his christological sense of responsibility being rooted in Christ’s incarnation can sometimes posit too much unity between the human (albeit Christian) decision and God’s action: “Precisely those who act in the freedom of their very own responsibility see their activity as flowing into God’s guidance. Free action recognizes itself ultimately as being God’s action, decision as God’s guidance, the venture as divine necessity.”51 That is perhaps true when correct, but dangerous nevertheless, as the possibility of divine forgiveness sanctifying imperfect human action does not preclude even Christians from making drastically misguided decisions in the right-​minded quest of concrete responsibility. This may be related to the fact that Bonhoeffer’s critique of a purely deontological rule-​based ethic unnecessarily decouples the difficult contextual choices of life from important guiding principles and rules, an issue to which we will return in Chapter 7.52

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Assessing Realism Realist approaches to Christian ethics are regularly accused, especially by those influenced by the peace church traditions, of fostering the expectation that physical violence (even if of a second-​order sort) is the only viable answer to the tensions and dilemmas of our lives and statecraft. This expectation can condition us to resort too quickly to violence,53 using only fire to fight fire, thereby undermining the “last resort” element of the just war tradition. The expectation becomes a self-​fulfilling prophecy. Similarly, the realist perspective can be used too easily and quickly to ignore other limits and rules of war. It is perhaps no coincidence that former American president Barack Obama, who had named Reinhold Niebuhr as his favorite philosopher, was criticized through the course of his administration for being insufficiently careful in the use of violent force to fight the so-​called war on terror, especially the role of unmanned drone attacks that sometimes harmed noncombatants and arguably terrorized communities in which they were used.54 Whether or not such a critique of the Obama administration is correct, these challenges will reappear in the next chapter as we consider the role of the idea of “necessity” in just war reasoning. Nevertheless, these contributions from Augustine, Niebuhr, and Bonhoeffer provide an account of Christian action that is attentive to the unavoidable strictures and uncertainties of the real world. The finitude of the world means that multiple forces and pressures are usually at play in the choices we make on the pilgrimage of discipleship. The presence of sin in persons and structures means that those forces and pressures are frequently oriented in destructive directions. The Christian—​being situated in the concrete historical world—​has no way to transcend those persons and structures entirely. Moreover, as we have seen, the Augustinian tradition has rejected the view that the sinfulness of the world is simply “out there,” external to the Christian and the Christian community. It is also present in our own lives as Christians and in the structures and cultures of communities of Christian faith.55 Christian action frequently, as Niebuhr and Bonhoeffer insist, finds itself groping around in the mists of relatively greater goods and relatively lesser evils; Christians find themselves forced to choose, frequently hard choices, in situations without clear answers. And sometimes there may be only undesirable choices. In this sense, then, there is an element of the “tragic” in the Christian moral and political life.

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  135 This is, however, only part of the description of Christian action in the world. As Bonhoeffer maintains (even more forthrightly than Niebuhr), this is the world in which the second person of the Trinity became human. This is the world into whose guilt Christ the Lord plunged in order to provide rescue and new life. This is the world whose ambiguities did not prevent God from making possible genuine righteousness. It is this world, the world that (as sinful) is judged and (as loved) assumed by God in the incarnation, that the Spirit makes an arena for authentic faithfulness, righteousness, and justice. The faithfulness and righteousness empowered by the Spirit of Christ always run short of the perfect faithfulness and pure righteousness of Jesus himself. As Bonhoeffer emphasized, the constant confessing of guilt and failing is part of the Christian life; it is in that confessing of genuine guilt, however, that the Christian person and Christian community find real forgiveness and renewal, the kind of forgiveness and renewal that make possible a responsible vicarious identification with the broader guilt of the world. There is, therefore, not only destructive conflict in Christian action, but a tension that is alleviated by God’s forgiving and judging welcome. There is a unity and hope even within the tragic elements of Christian responsibility. If Bonhoeffer is correct, the unity and hope do not remove ambiguity and make for an assured sense of rightness in our behavior. This is visible in his own wrestling with the decision to contribute to the German resistance’s efforts at tyrannicide.56 Tension and ambiguity, however, do not mean crushing destruction, because of Christ’s liberating word of forgiveness and his promise of resurrection and cosmic renewal. In the meantime, there may be certain principles and guidelines that can help the Christian to navigate this tensive moral life, though we must remember Bonhoeffer’s insistence that such principles and guidelines are never strict blueprints of action. Among these principles—​in the arena of first-​and second-​order violence—​are the canons of the just war tradition, and its echoes in other structures of state and magisterial church. Among them also are the exhortations of Jesus, which as Niebuhr points out may not always be straightforwardly fulfillable within the fray of history but remain normative guides for the Christian attempt to approximate a fuller and fuller life and love in the quest for a more and more adequate justice. My contention is that this realist framework of Christian ethics makes better sense of what Christians actually inhabit and experience in their moral life. (It stands, we must remember, under the constant challenge and scrutiny of the Anabaptist churches’ discernment that following the ways of Jesus requires a more thoroughgoing rejection of the ways

136  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence of the world.) Accordingly, a realist framework helps us to make sense of the shape of Christian calling in the world. And as Christians are first called to faithfulness in whatever they do, the concept of martyrdom—​as an argument about the shape of faithful witness to the crucified one—​will inform Christian understanding of the contours of what we are called to do and how we are called to live amid the ambiguities of the world.

Christian Calling in the Real World Coursing through the biblical storyline is the Creator God’s “call” or “vocation.”57 Human beings are called to “have dominion” and “be fruitful” as image-​bearers of God (Gen. 1:27–​28).58 Abraham is called to be the father of a nation that will extend blessing to a world laboring under sin and violence (see, paradigmatically, Gen. 12). Israel is called to be a holy nation, set apart so that God’s intentions for all creation will be fulfilled. While the primary call to the Israelites is to be faithful and holy, at the same time there is a secondary call to the nation’s people, not just its leaders, to provide the material and spiritual conditions for the people’s flourishing. Some individuals are called as leaders: Moses, Deborah, Samuel, Isaiah, often (though not always) through a pointed encounter with the divine Caller. Other members of the people produce food, offer labor, provide for divine worship, and even fight for the nation. The New Testament presents the church—​the community of those who are united with Christ—​as a renewed form of Israel, the people with the calling (klēsis) to bring the triune God’s salvific purposes to the ends of the earth.59 Those salvific purposes include the individual’s reconciliation with God, but also the flourishing of life in creation, even at a more mundane level. In addition to the call to all Christians to participate in God’s covenant community, there is in the New Testament what Douglas Schuurman calls (drawing upon Karl Barth) “particular callings to places of responsibility.”60 While some are called into leadership within the church community, the work of the whole community is involved in carrying out God’s call of mission to and for the world (as in Acts 2) and its well-​being. That this includes Christians’ social locations and even their worldly occupations is something that Schuurman defends via 1 Corinthians 7’s use of “call” (both the noun klēsis and the verb kaleo) interchangeably both for a relationship with Christ and for the circumstances of our lives (with slavery and freedom

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  137 serving as the key example).61 Schuurman also points to Ephesians 4–​6’s use of household relations and arrangements as an arena for faithfulness.62 But his broadest reason supporting the idea that the normal roles and jobs of life are “calls” from God to the Christian is the New Testament’s affirmation of the goodness and divine reclamation of all creation: This larger theological perspective, in which God’s purpose includes the redemption of human life in its entirety, including institutions, and even the cosmos, encourages Christians to sense God’s purpose and call in all of life. The Spirit of God not only gives “spiritual” gifts to be employed in the service of the community of faith; it also gives “natural” gifts for the benefit of the wider human community.63

From this angle, the call to a life with Christ is what informs and empowers other “places of responsibility” as the call of God: “God’s call to be a Christian must qualify every aspect of life: marriage and family, employment relationships, political life, as well as the life of the church. The call to love and serve the Lord, made active in a person’s life, transforms all spheres and activities into so many callings.”64 The early Christian church even applied this language of calling to martyrdom. For example, the mid-​third-​century bishop Fructuosus, upon being arrested, is said by his narrator to be “calm and glad that he would receive the Lord’s crown to which he had been called (invocatus).”65 As another example, in one of the stranger episodes in early Christian martyr literature, a woman named Agathonice witnesses a Christian named Carpus seeing the glory of God as he is being executed. As the text’s narrator puts it, “Realizing that this was a call (klēsin) from heaven,” Agathonice “threw herself joyfully upon the stake.” After requesting God’s assistance, “She gave up her spirit and died together with the saints.”66 Perhaps because it became associated with martyrdom and the broader concept of sainthood, the scope of the notion of vocation or calling narrowed dramatically in the Western Christian world of medieval Catholicism. There—​and still in Catholic theology today, though to a lesser degree—​the idea of “calling” is mostly applied to explicitly “religious” occupations, such as the priesthood and the various forms of monastic life. From that perspective, the “religious” occupations that actually require “calling” represent a higher plane of faith than what is lived out by most Christians. As Karl Barth characterizes the medieval view, “Klesis, vocation, meant the admission and

138  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence transition of the homo religious to this true and special Christianity, to the true militia Christi.”67 In contrast to the “religious” with their callings, the vast majority of Christians occupied their lives with “secular” occupations, such as farming, trade, service, and the military. Such secular occupations, often seen against the backdrop of the assumption that God had ordained certain “stations” of life for particular people, were seen as good and necessary, but not imbued with the full religious and spiritual significance of a “calling.” Among other things, this “two-​caste system” exempted clergy “from the necessities of secular existence—​necessities that include, of course, sex and military service, without which the next generation would neither exist nor survive.”68 The Protestant Reformers objected to this view, claiming instead that all legitimate occupations—​ whether butcher, baker, or candlestick manufacturer—​can be ways of serving God, just as all occupations can also be lived out sinfully. Martin Luther believed that Catholic monasticism had turned “the universal gospel intended for all the faithful into a special rule for the few.”69 This means, he argued, that “to the common people, they ascribe a life of imperfection; to themselves, a life of perfection. And they measure this difference not by Spirit, faith, and love, which are certainly markedly predominant among common people. They measure it by the show and appearance of outward works and by their vows, in which there is nothing at all, neither Spirit, faith, nor love.”70 In the end, Luther sees specifically churchly vocations as on the very same spiritual plane as non-​churchly ones.71 Those who going to be priests or monks must recognize that they “do this just as another man may take up farming or a trade—​every man a job—​without any thought of merits or justification.”72 In this sense, normal occupations contributing to the benefit of the world are legitimate “callings” from God, legitimate ways to serve God and one’s neighbor, and have religious, not merely secular, significance. They are religious in their worldliness and worldly in their form of religious expression. If this is true, Schuurman summarizes, then “all of life’s relational spheres—​paid work included—​are religiously meaningful as places for service to God and neighbor.”73 Luther highlights three “stations” or “orders” to which human beings are called to do their work for God: (1) ministry, (2) marriage and family (in which he includes things like business that contribute to the possibility and flourishing of life in the world, with marriage and family as paradigms), and (3) temporal authority. Though Christian action in the ordinary occupations of life will look similar to the non-​Christian performance of those same

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  139 occupations, it will be infused by love and faith and thus taken up joyfully and fearlessly as service for God and the world.74 In short, aside from occupations that clearly contradict the will of God, nearly all forms of work are potential avenues for glorifying God and contributing to God’s intent for creation. Ultimately, this is rooted in humanity’s bearing of God’s image. As Nigel Biggar writes, “Human beings are made in the image of God to tend the world. We are made to care for what deserves to be cared for, and to flourish in its service. We are made to take responsibility under God—​to take responsibility while being responsible.”75 Recognizing the truth of this Protestant perspective—​ acknowledged 76 today by many Catholics —​may be rather easy in the case of the candlestick maker and baker, although one’s view of the butcher depends of course upon one’s view of the ethics and spirituality of eating meat. How far, though, does this theologically sweeping sense of vocation extend? We probably have little difficulty seeing it extend to the office of mayor or senator, although many in the peace church traditions would have to demur. But what about prison food service provider or county prosecutor? What about forms of work that involve physically wielding the “sword” on behalf of society—​prison guard, police officer, or soldier? Executioner? Can these occupations be a genuine calling from God? A Christian realist perspective, consonant with magisterial Christianity, points to the possibility of such lines of work being a legitimate expression of one’s “calling” from God.77 For example, on the one hand, the need for food service in prisons is lamentable, as prisons are a sign of crime and disorder within a citizenry and also a locus of societal crime perpetrated (sometimes consciously and sometimes unwittingly) against the unjustly imprisoned and sectors of society that have been disproportionately imprisoned.78 But on the other hand, good food for those imprisoned is a small but important sign and acknowledgment of the dignity of those imprisoned and a sign of a society’s sense of mercy and its own fallibility. Similarly, it may be undesirable that individuals cannot be afforded unfettered liberty to live their lives however they please; but conflicting interests and sinful self-​interest make enforced order and laws necessary. As we saw in Chapter 3, Augustine saw the magistrate Boniface as serving Christian faith through his military valor. Similarly, as we just noted, Luther saw the “temporal authority” as one of the three crucial “estates” or “stations” in which Christians are called to do their work. While a magistrate may primarily work in the estate of temporal authority, the spiritual estate

140  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence still applies to him or her.79 The Reformed theological tradition has tended to advocate an even more positive view of government, as an intended part of the goodness of creation, albeit a part whose role is heightened due to human sinfulness.80 While some requirements of their work are lamentable, mayors, sheriffs, and prosecutors are integral to a productive and flourishing society. Drawing in part on Romans 13, the realist/​magisterial traditions regard such occupations as acceptable ways for the Christian to serve God; they may be rooted in the ambiguities and tragedies of the world, but Christian responsibility is possible there in order to empower life and even some flourishing in a damaged and violent society. In the magisterial churches, as we have seen, this extends to the work of the soldier, provided that the provisions for just warfare are followed. In the Catholic world, the work of the soldier is permissible but not usually seen as a “calling” with the full religious freight of the term. In magisterial Protestant theology, however, the offices of judge, police officer, and even soldier are often seen as “calling” with religious significance. Luther writes that soldiers “should inform their consciences that they do not do this [i.e., shed blood in war] from choice, desire, or ill-​will, but that this is God’s work and that it is their duty to their prince and their God. Therefore, since it is a legitimate office, ordained by God, they should be paid and compensated for doing it.”81 From the Roman Catholic perspective of the Middle Ages, with its distinction between religious callings and secular occupations, it made sense to deny forms of bearing the sword the status of “calling,” while at the same time admitting their necessity and the propriety of Christians occupying those positions. For example, Thomas Aquinas, right in the midst of his discussion of the just war (see Chapter 3), considers “whether it is lawful for clerics and bishops to fight.”82 Despite four rather persuasive objections, Thomas answers in the negative, drawing his biblical warrant from Jesus’ command to Peter to put away his sword (Matt. 16:52). In keeping with his prior affirmation of the possibility of just fighting, Thomas acknowledges that fighting is “requisite for the good of a human society.” But he maintains that “certain occupations are so inconsistent with one another, that they cannot be fittingly exercised at the same time.”83 Why are fighting and serving as a priest inconsistent? First, because the “unrest” of fighting would “hinder the mind very much from the contemplation of Divine things.” The second reason, however, is more complex. He says that clerics are called to the ministry of representing Christ’s passion through the Eucharist, “wherefore it is unbecoming for them to slay or shed blood, and it is more fitting that they should

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  141 be ready to shed their own blood for Christ, as to imitate in deed what they portray in their ministry.” Suffering violence for Christ rather than inflicting it is the shape of their vocation. It is worth noting that, even though Thomas himself didn’t see any dissonance here, his reasoning inadvertently challenges magisterial thinking altogether: If representing Christ is a general Christian call, not just for those in religious orders, and fighting is an ill fit, how is it legitimate at all for the Christian? This is, of course, to inject a Protestant perspective into the discussion.84 Regardless, Thomas’s main point here is that those who have a standard religious calling are forbidden from undertaking the activities of the soldier. Their role related to war is to support the spiritual life and conscience of those who are fighting, “to dispose and counsel other men to engage in just wars.”85 Thomas is clear that this prohibition for the “religious” is not because fighting is inherently sinful, but because it is out of keeping with their particular calling. The military life, from this perspective, is not strictly speaking a “calling.”86 As we saw back in Chapter 1, Thomas saw no need to exclude the soldierly death from the category of martyrdom, which shows that although (as a figure of his time) he did not apply to secular work the language of calling, that does not mean that he was evacuating all such work, even that of a soldier, of spiritual significance. From a Protestant view of vocation coupled with just war teaching, the point becomes even stronger. If, within the contours of just war considerations, one can fight rightly; if, within the contours of Protestantism’s broadening of “vocation,” any occupation that one can do rightly can be considered part of one’s “calling” from God; if these conditions hold, it is difficult to see why the military life couldn’t be seen as a calling from God that includes the responsibility to exercise the powers and temptations of the position with care, restraint, sobriety, and even love. One of the fundamental premises of the just war ethic and its implied realist framework is that the lesser evil is sometimes necessary for the good of the world, even if it must be regarded as a tragic, ambiguous, and imperfect good.87 Given the enduring sin and suffering of creation and the tarrying of Christ’s return, in that eschatological in-​between time (i.e., in Act 5 of the Christian drama), we are faced with difficult choices. Our lives are fraught with moral ambiguity. From this standpoint, it is consistent with the Christian life to decide to pursue the lesser evil in the conviction that, given the constraints of alternatives, it makes a (painful) contribution to the world’s good. The danger, of course, is that we will grow complacent, satisfied with the lesser evil and the limited

142  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence good rather than striving for the greater goods that God’s grace often makes possible. As we have seen and will shortly see again, herein lies one of the gifts of the traditional saints, including the martyrs, as they remind us that true, costly faithfulness really is possible, even in unlikely places. To talk of “calling” is to speak of what it means to act responsibly as a Christian in God’s world. The contours of a realist perspective, especially in its Protestant forms, imply that imperfection and ambiguity will always be present, both in the world in which the Christian is called to act responsibly and faithfully, and in the Christian himself as an agent whose most responsible and faithful action will still remain checkered. At the heart of traditional Protestant soteriology is the Reformation simul—​the belief that Christian existence involves the paradox of being righteous before God while simultaneously still influenced by sin (simul justus et peccator). From this theological vantage point, then, “calling” is lived out upon the terrain of sanctification, the lifelong journey of sanctification, in which the Christian is being transformed by the power of the Holy Spirit so that she increasingly resembles the righteousness that God already finds in her through Christ’s justifying grace. As John Calvin wrote, sanctification is a matter of deepening repentance, a dying to the ways of the sinful self and a rising to the new ways of life in the Spirit.88 Such sanctification is both the preparation for and the theater of our “callings,” including occupations that attempt to bring justice to bear on a troubled world in the hope that greater flourishing will thereby be possible. As part of the lifelong journey of sanctification, the living out of such callings will be marked by (1) the continuing imperfection and failure of the self, (2) the fractured and violent nature of the world, and yet (3) genuine Spirit-​empowered good.

Interlude: Military Calling, Moral Injury, and Just War Teaching Acknowledging the ruptured nature of the world—​which is at the heart of a Christian realist framework—​helps us to make sense of the dilemmas, tragedies, and even mistakes that are faced by Christians called to occupations involving the “sword.” American society has become slightly more aware of the struggles faced by soldiers when they return to regular life after time in battle (and also of law enforcement officers as they face the stresses and constant balancing act of their job). There is certainly greater public attentiveness

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  143 to wrongful use of violence by people in those positions, occasions when what ought to be restrained second-​order violence morphs into a destructive first-​ order violence. The effects of post-​traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), leading to relationship and parenting difficulties, depression, and elevated rates of suicide, may be exacerbated when people in these occupations develop a deeper sense of being alone and isolated in this work. In an age where society is (rightly) outraged by incidents of police brutality or instances of civilian deaths in battle, the average police officer or soldier—​perhaps especially those who are attempting to do their work with restrained and justice-​oriented violence, only when absolutely necessary, and even with compassion—​may be more apt to feel that their every move is being scrutinized, that they are walking an impossible knife’s edge, with the whole weight of the injustice of American society and even the violence of the world pressing upon them. In such a psychological frame it likely becomes significantly harder than it already is to navigate the challenges, dilemmas, and judgments of these occupations. In such a context we easily forget that society’s sword-​bearers do their work on behalf of society, work that the majority of the population either doesn’t want to do or isn’t able to do.89 If, however, the weight of the job is seen less as the individual’s personal burden, but recognized as actually society’s burden—​with all of us bearing its weight and at times its culpability—​the job could potentially be experienced in a different way. When a well-​intentioned police officer commits an unjustified shooting of, say, an unarmed black citizen, that is in part my guilt as a member of the society in which such things are conditioned to happen. This is not to say that the police officer shouldn’t be held accountable, even in the criminal justice system depending on the particulars of the incident (especially if not well intentioned), but to say that the public should not behave with a kind of scapegoating outrage that implies that it is only that person, not all of us corporately, who bear responsibility for that instance of second-​ order violence gone awry.90 The weight of responsibility for the second-​order violence of the sword is related to the phenomenon of “moral injury” (as distinct from PTSD). According to Rita Nakashima Brock and Gabriella Lettini, “After witnessing, ordering, or engaging in war’s atrocities, many soldiers acknowledge something deep changes in them. The shift can take place right away, or it can take many years or even decades to be realized.”91 This traumatic change in the self that has been termed moral injury “comes from having transgressed one’s basic moral identity and violated core moral beliefs.”92 The result is that

144  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence soldiers “feel they no longer live in a reliable, meaningful world and can no longer be regarded as decent human beings.”93 For many soldiers, as well as sword-​bearers of other kinds, the felt trauma of moral injury is related to religious convictions, a “moral schizophrenia” resulting from the conflict between military activity and the virtues cultivated by religious belief.94 Tom Frame, an Anglican priest who also served in the Australian Navy, points out that for many Western soldiers, whether they realize it or not, the dissonance that creates moral injury is related to how they have been “molded by the Christian story” and its call to love and peace. Rooting the phenomenon of moral injury even deeper in the image of God, Frame observes that “deployed personnel are obliged to see, hear, smell, and sometimes do what they were not designed to see, hear, smell, or do, evidenced by the involuntary revulsions that some sights, sounds, smells, and deeds elicit.”95 Scholars sometimes distinguish between two varieties of moral injury. On the one hand, there is moral injury resulting when soldiers commit actual atrocities in war, atrocities in the sense of war crimes, whether or not they are held legally accountable for those atrocities.96 Robert Emmet Meagher tells the wrenching story of a US soldier whose participation in the war in Iraq, including the normal violence of war, accidental killing of civilians, and an intentional point-​blank shooting of an unarmed man, eventually led him to suicide.97 On the other hand, however, there is the more customary sense of moral injury as a lingering trauma that results even when soldiers do their best to abide by the rules of war, both their legal letter and moral spirit.98 As Pete Kilner, a West Point professor and retired army officer writes, “Even in a justified war that is fought justly, combat soldiers are likely to intentionally kill enemy soldiers, unintentionally harm civilians, and witness levels of violence and senseless suffering that challenge their assumptions about their own moral goodness and the goodness of the world.”99 Timothy Kudo, a former US Marine who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, tells the story of being on a patrol where two men on a motorcycle drove ominously toward his unit. Despite being warned off with shouts, warning shots, and a smoke grenade, the motorcycle continued toward them. The marines eventually fired at the motorcycle, killing both men, who turned out to be unarmed. As Kudo writes, “I know that our decision was right, and given the outcome, that it was also wrong.”100 The result is the trauma of moral injury. For Kudo, “It’s not the sights, sounds, adrenaline, and carnage of war that linger. It’s the morality. We did evil things, maybe necessary evil, but evil nonetheless.”101 His is a soberly and painfully realist description of the world.

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  145 According to Meagher, we here encounter the perpetual tension between intentions and consequences, one that rears its dissonant head most obviously in the context of war.102 Even when intentions are good—​to save lives, stop a dangerous enemy—​when the results of our actions are negative or destructive, we frequently experience moral guilt and personal shame, even when our actions were entirely accidental. Drawing upon ancient Greek tragedy, Meagher describes this experience as “pollution” or “metaphysical crime.”103 When our actions—​whether in war or civilian life—​have the consequence of taking another’s life, we experience ourselves as having done wrong. It is as if we sense our actions, however well intentioned, to have gone against the grain of the cosmos, of having transgressed the moral order of reality, giving us the unshakable sense that we have done wrong and bear shame and responsibility. In Meagher’s view, the just war tradition is to blame here. Our inner self, our sense of reality, and our conscience acknowledge that in war we have done wrong, but (in his characterization) just war teaching declares a just war to be good. “The deceptive and destructive core of the Christian just war doctrine can be stated very simply. It is the claim that wars, or at least some wars, and all the killing and destruction they entail, are—​in addition to being necessary—​good and right, even virtuous and meritorious, pleasing in the sight of God.”104 He is particularly critical of Ambrose and Augustine: “War and killing, now blessed, soon became not the lesser of two evils but a positive good.”105 If justified war is a positive good, it would stand to reason that there can’t be moral injury. Why, then, do soldiers experience it? For Meagher, it would be better to acknowledge that all war is sin, to cease trying to justify it, and to place our hope in the goodness of humanity.106 In choosing the word “sin,” Meagher appeals to a quotation by William Mahedy that is frequently cited in moral injury literature. Reflecting on his experience as a chaplain in Vietnam, Mahedy writes that “the essential failure of the chaplaincy in Vietnam was its inability to name the reality for what it was. We should first have called it sin, admitted we were in a morally ambiguous and religiously tenuous situation, and then gone on to deal with the harsh reality of the soldier’s life.”107 Though he occasionally acknowledges that war is “necessary” (in stark contrast to it being good), Meagher’s argument strides in a pacifist direction, one that seems to fit in the utopian tradition of pacifism, given his hope in humanity’s goodness as an alternative to war.108 At very least, we should take heed of his argument that the Christian just war tradition has sometimes had

146  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the consequence of giving easy permission for war even if its stated intention has been to restrain it.109 He writes: “Sometimes to open a pinhole is to unleash a flood, particularly when the force to be controlled is immeasurably greater than the barriers placed in its path.”110 However, those persuaded (as I am) by the core of the just war reasoning of the magisterial Christian tradition may find themselves (as I do) leaning into Meagher’s acknowledgment of the occasional “necessity” of war and suggesting that just war teaching provides useful language for analyzing and inhabiting that necessity. Even broader than the just war ethic is the perspective of Christian realism that we have traced in this chapter (and to which we will return again in the next). As we have seen, this framework’s attentiveness to the inevitability of violence and aggression in a world of sin means that working for the good, for justice, peace, order, and flourishing, takes place in the “twilight,” amid the brokenness of the world where decisions are frequently ambiguous and actions are often wrong in one sense but right or necessary in another. We may recall Kudo’s description of a wartime decision that was simultaneously right and wrong, a simultaneity that produces moral pain. The realist traditions of Christian ethics affirm that this is symptomatic—​admittedly a painful symptom, where those who directly bear the sword shoulder more than their fair share of the pain—​of the reality we inhabit here and now. Put in N. T. Wright’s terms, we live in Act 5 of the biblical drama but not yet in Act 6; and in Act 5, as we have seen, the traumatic effects of Act 2 follow our every move. This is to say that Christian forms of realism are willing to admit that there is a sense in which violence is wrong—​it is indeed “metaphysical crime” in relation to the divine intent for human life. But second-​order violence is also inevitable and sometimes necessary prior to Act 6. Failure to deploy the sword to protect the vulnerable and the good of everyday life would simply be another kind of metaphysical crime. It is telling that Meagher appeals positively to Bonhoeffer’s decision to participate in resistance attempts to kill Hitler. In Meagher’s view, Bonhoeffer was neither “morally confused” nor “morally innocent.”111 Such a statement is actually a concise summary of Christian realism, even if Meagher rejects the project of “justifying” war that usually accompanies it. The tenuous needle that a realist perspective tries to thread is to cultivate an awareness of the brokenness, ambiguity, and thus difficult choices required by responsibility in the world, but to do so in a way that is principled and hopeful and does not devolve into a cynical comfort in the violence we must deploy. Moral injury—​in spite of its pain, which is experienced most acutely by sword-​bearers—​is, as many scholars have pointed

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  147 out, symptomatic of the created goodness of our humanity, as it is a recognition that violence is out of tune with the deepest sensibilities and longings of our God-​given nature. When most clearheaded, the just war tradition has in fact usually resisted calling war “good” or “God-​pleasing” in a straightforward and unambiguous way. Such statements can, of course, be found. In this book we have seen them in Augustine and Luther, among others. They certainly can be found in the deadly Western experiment with crusades, as the mentality of just war fanned the less restrained flames of religious commitment and rhetoric to which Meagher rightly gives much attention. While Meagher characterizes the Crusades as “just war theory gone raving mad,” they could arguably be called “just war theory gone astray.” It is not without reason that Luther takes clear steps toward a purer just war ethic in place of the holy war of the Crusades, and modern thinkers increasingly rejected true religion as a legitimate just cause for war.112 In short, war being seen as holy, God-​pleasing, meritorious, good is the troubling exception rather than the just war rule, at least according to modern just war thinking. While such language can occasionally be found in thinkers like Augustine, we can more easily find statements that lament war, that bemoan its necessity and seeming inevitability. Though distancing himself, as an Orthodox Christian, from Western just war thinking, military chaplain Sean Levine captures this attitude when he says that killing in war should be cause for mourning rather than celebration: “This view aligns with the wounded souls of thousands of warriors who, although glad for having survived and for having prevailed in battle, still grieve the destruction they have witnessed and perpetrated.”113 As we saw in Chapters 3 and 5, justified warfare, if truly justified, is at most a sad necessity due to the world’s first-​order violence. It involves the difficult and painful paradox of participating in the sinful ways of the world in order to resist the deeper and more destructive effects of the violence of human sin. It is, as the cliché says, to fight fire with fire, to fight aggressive first-​order violence with defensive and reparative second-​order violence. If this is correct, then there is truth to Mahedy’s statement that “war is sin.” But that need not mean that all martial causes or acts are equally sinful or sinful in the same sense. Mahedy’s quotation itself suggests that even if a war is “justified” and a soldier’s action is “right,” “war as a human enterprise is a matter of sin.”114 Realist Christianity agrees. Mahedy continues by saying that war “is a form of hatred for one’s fellow human beings. It produces alienation from others and nihilism, and it ultimately represents a turning away

148  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence from God.” That is where the just war ethic finds other possibilities, even if they are subtle and difficult to manage. As we have considered elsewhere in this book, it is possible that some forms of fighting are actually expressions of Christian love. Reinhold Niebuhr suggests that the love we see commanded by Jesus (though, in his view, not fully possible here and now) is both a principle of “indiscriminate criticism” of all human efforts at justice, but also a principle of “discriminate criticism,” whereby it is possible to judge some (fallible) human structures and actions better than others, possibly to the point of fighting for them.115 Saying “sin” plain and simple is to avoid important distinctions. What, then, to make of moral injury in relation to just war? As many have suggested, a certain measure of it is appropriate for human beings in general and certainly for Christians. Levine observes that “feeling guilty about war and killing is neither pathological nor irrational. . . . Moral injury, like a warning light on the dashboard of a vehicle, signals damage, impairment, tarnishing, and more, to the image of God residing in each person.”116 We should also acknowledge that it is one thing for a person like me, who has never had the responsibility to bear the sword, to affirm this, and quite another for those who have borne it to have to endure the trauma of moral injury. If something like moral injury is inevitable for human beings who fight, especially those characterized by compassion, empathy, and a profound sense of justice—​that is to say, those we are apt to label as “good people”—​then are there ways to mitigate its effects? Are there ways to allow it as a symptom of the brokenness of the world and our common plight of sinfulness but to prevent it from destroying the lives of returned solders (or law enforcement officers, etc.)? One of the most common recommendations from those who study moral injury is to abide as assiduously as possible by the letter and the spirit of just war principles. Douglas Pryer, for example, insists on the need for a “morally focused approach to war” rather than attention only to narrow issues of legality.117 Edward Tick draws from veteran Glen Miller to suggest that the anguish of moral injury is inversely related to the justice of war. When the cause is unjust (as many believe to be the case with Vietnam and Iraq), moral injury is inevitable and perhaps apt to be more severe.118 Abiding by the morality of just war, of course, requires more than a genuine just cause, but also fighting in restrained and discriminating ways. This leads Kilner to say that military leaders should demand that their soldiers treat both enemy combatants and noncombatants with respect.119 This means, he argues,

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  149 that the training of soldiers should humanize, rather than dehumanize, the enemy: “After all, dehumanization holds up for only so long; at some point, soldiers realize that the targets they engage are indeed human beings. When that realization happens, soldiers feel deceived. . . . Rather than perpetuate an unsustainable wartime lie, then, leaders should speak honestly about the humanity of the enemy.” Soldiers should be taught that they are fighting against the unjust cause or destructive actions of the enemy. This makes it possible, Kilner contends, to cultivate soldiers “who defend the innocent without hating the aggressors, and who ultimately appreciate both the necessity of fighting and the tragedy of war. By not denying the humanity of their enemy, soldiers would retain their own full humanity.”120 From this standpoint, it is necessary to challenge Meagher’s blanket statement that the moral wounds of “warriors who are injured in war, in their bodies and in their souls . . . are all but indifferent to whether the war they fought and suffered was just or unjust.”121 Fighting justly does not inoculate against moral injury—​nor should it, if lament and a sense of tragedy are necessary ingredients in just fighting. But there is reason to believe that it makes that injury more survivable. A final ingredient in taking the mortal edge off of moral injury is to recognize that the responsibility for actions soldiers undertake and suffer in war ought to be a shared responsibility. This is admittedly much easier to state as a matter of theory than as a truth of experience, for those who shoot the gun or pilot the drone or drive the tank experience the repercussions of those actions in much more direct, acute ways than those on whose behalf they do it.122 But it is nevertheless true that sword-​bearers carry the sword on behalf of others, whether the commanders who direct their actions, the government whose will they pursue, and the populace that stands behind that government. “Soldiers in war should be commended often by their leaders for their service, yet also be reminded that they acted as one small element of a national collective body that bears the ultimate responsibility for each mission, each deployment, and the war itself.”123 Accordingly, citizens need to “mutually own war trauma” with veterans, in the sense of recognizing the blood on the collective hands of the nation.124 The moral responsibility for war is, most properly, society’s responsibility. Let us take an easy case and imagine a military force that is clearly and unambiguously on the right side of a conflict, persistently adhering to just war principles in the going to war and the waging of it. The tradition would judge such actions to be right and in keeping with sincere Christian faith. Even in such a case, it is likely that soldiers upon return from battle would

150  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence find themselves haunted by their experience, not just by what they witnessed and friends they had lost (though that would presumably be a large part of the pain), but also by what they had done. Stabbing or shooting or lobbing explosives at the enemy is part of the second-​order violence of war, but is frequently accompanied by feelings of shame and moral pain, even when such actions are eminently justified. Why is that? Because there is an important sense in which such things are not right, not the way human beings were intended to live, theologically speaking. This is the semantic force of the “lamentably” that frequently appears in Augustine and other advocates of the just war. Even when we do them, and regard ourselves or our country as rightly doing them, there is something about such actions that still goes against the grain of our conscience, as it goes against the grain of the shalom intended for God’s world. The realist framework of Christian ethics that we have been exploring in this chapter suggests that this is a symptom of acting responsibly amid the brokenness of the world. While the experience of guilt or shame may naturally yet unfortunately belong more vividly to the soldier than to the citizen, as it was the soldier’s finger that pulled the trigger, there is an important sense in which any guilt should also apply to the whole society that sends and depends upon the soldier. Furthermore, there may be something psychologically healthy about realizing and admitting that what we are doing might be wrong, or is somehow tinged with wrong while also being right. For the one who deploys second-​ order violence on behalf of society, even when that violence is deemed justified and necessary—​“right” in that sense—​it may often feel wrong. That feeling of it being wrong, of course, likely results from the tragedy of the state of affairs that made it necessary or unavoidable in the first place. Perhaps acknowledging the imperfection of the world—​and our own actions, even the ones we feel compelled to do—​is a more honest and psychologically endurable strategy than trying to convince ourselves that our actions are fully right, fully pure, and if they are not, then that is entirely our individual responsibility to shoulder. This is even more possible if there’s a shared and public recognition that such ambiguous actions, though performed by a few, are done for the many, for society, which then bears and shares the responsibility. The view I am defending here is that the “calling” of the sword—​one that is lived out amid the trauma, uncertainty, and relativity of life in a world still afflicted by sin, aggression, and violence; a calling involving discerning the greater good amid the twilight of lesser evils—​is consistent with the Christian

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  151 disciple’s long path of sanctification in a world that still groans for redemption. If consistent with sanctification, is it also consistent with genuine sanctity? If with sanctity, then with the idea of sainthood (including martyrdom) as an exemplary and potent witness of holiness in the world?

The Theology of Sainthood (I) Though the concepts are closely related, we frequently distinguish between holiness and sainthood. For most people, sainthood is what Lawrence Cunningham calls “heroic sanctity,” up a few notches as a superior form of holiness.125 Where does this distinction come from, and is it theologically tenable? Early in Christian history, as we have already seen with some of the early martyrs, saints were seen as exemplars of faith and discipleship who could inspire other Christians as they lived their lives of faith. Rather quickly they became not only honored for their faithfulness but also revered as sources of divine power, with their relics becoming prized possessions imbued with the power of their holiness. Over the course of time, as Cunningham shows, the miracles performed by and through the saints became more of a focus than the saint’s exemplarity.126 Miracles were seen as pivotal (though not sufficient) proof of the saint’s genuine holiness.127 Both in holiness and in power, a Christian could be honored as a saint only if he or she fulfilled “supererogatory norms.”128 The effect of this, in Cunningham’s words, was that the “paradigmatic example” and “intrinsic value” of the saint’s life were “obscured or unwittingly denigrated by the rather thick patina of the miraculous.”129 “This emphasis on the miraculous,” he writes, “was so complete in the early Middle Ages that the saints, by and large, lost any exemplary value as persons of paradigmatic worth and became instead a locus of power” through the miracles and the supernatural power of their remains.130 In the Western Catholic world, the business of identifying the saints, which had begun informally via the acclaim of the Christian populace, became formalized and institutionalized, or, in Cunningham’s words (which he does not intend in an overly pejorative sense), increasingly “bureaucratized.”131 The formalizing of the process of “canonization” of the saints occurred partly as a reaction to the “imaginative fancies” of the people that generated farfetched saint stories with significant historical difficulties,132 and also partly as an inevitable byproduct of the growing institutionalization of the church itself. In

152  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the process, miracles and doctrinal orthodoxy became the key criteria for sainthood. At the same time, there arose a preference for clerical and therefore celibate saints, a preference that parallels the two-​tier view of vocation that we examined in the previous section.133 The upshot of the canonization process in the liturgy and spirituality of the Catholic Church is that the saints came to play an important role in interceding for the faithful, that is, functioning as mediators of the power and presence of God for the church as it continues its pilgrimage. As such, they could be “venerated,” while of course “worship” belongs to God alone.134 But they were separated out, made almost unreachable, in comparison to the Christian hoi polloi. In the face of this trend, Cunningham argues, it important for the church “to recover a sense of the embodiment of the holy in the life of a concrete person.”135 The saints played such a pivotal role in the lives and spiritual consciousness of Christians that the concern arose that they were being idolized, that veneration was in danger of shading into worship. While this concern is almost as old as the phenomenon of Christian sainthood itself, the worry took on especially polemical overtones in the Reformation critique of medieval Catholicism.136 Martin Luther decried what he perceived as the excesses of his day connected to the saints, their intercession and relics, but still held saintly heroes in high regard.137 John Calvin, in turn, developed a more thoroughgoing critique of sainthood. Like Luther, Calvin regarded the Catholic cult of the saints as little more than idolatry: “A few centuries ago the saints who had departed this life were elevated into copartnership with God, to be honored, and also to be invoked and praised in his stead.”138 The idea that the departed saints could have any intercessory role for Christians is for Calvin no more than rank superstition, “the horrid sacrilege of calling upon the saints now not as helpers but as determiners of . . . salvation.”139 Calvin’s critique is theologically linked to his carefully circumscribed view of the place of good works in the Christian life, which includes a rejection of the very idea of “supererogatory works.”140 For Calvin, works play no role in salvation; they can only give us comfort when we consciously see them as the fruit of Christ’s activity in our lives.141 And that is the place that true saints give to good works.142 Accordingly, Calvin and other Protestants do not reject the idea of sainthood; its presence in the New Testament and the Apostles’ Creed (“communion of the saints”) precludes that possibility. Euan Cameron observes that “the term ‘saint’ was used very liberally, in Protestant theology from Luther onwards, to describe the viator, the ordinary Christian who is saved by grace, and saved in hope of a regeneration to be completed

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  153 in a future life.”143 Accordingly, in rejecting the late-​medieval Catholic conception of the saints, Calvin’s view involves a significantly more egalitarian notion of Christian sainthood. Following the Creed, for Calvin (when not speaking polemically) the language of sainthood is properly a way of talking about faithful Christians,144 not “heroic sanctity.” Rather than a two-​tier or what Charles Taylor calls a “multi-​speed” conception of piety,145 where the saints are regarded as the truly and almost inimitably sanctified in contrast to the rank-​and-​file majority of Christians, Calvin and most of the mainstream Protestant traditions saw sainthood as something that ought to apply to the whole church, to all of its members, regardless of whether they are clergy or laity, famous or anonymous, as they are those sanctified by the transformative power of the Spirit. This move dovetails with the Protestant conception of vocation. If service of God with spiritual significance is possible in any realm of life and work, then it follows that all such realms are potential avenues of holiness, that is, of sainthood. One interesting irony of the Protestant situation is that even though sainthood has played only a small role formally in Protestant theology, it still played (and plays) a significant role at the popular level, especially via fascination with the martyrs.146 In their fascination with the martyrs, it appears that Protestants still long for something akin to saints as luminaries of the Christian journey. Cameron notes that, though the Protestant memorializing of martyrs was much more muted liturgically, “one can without too much of a stretch imagine that the reading of a martyrology such as those of Foxe or Crespin, might have played a somewhat similar role in a reformed household, as the reading of a hagiography had done in a medieval monastery.”147 The question is whether the longing is for heroes or companions, for those who do what we cannot do or those who encourage us to do what we can through the Spirit’s power. Even a Catholic such as Cunningham finds it important for the saints to be imitable and relatable examples for rank-​and-​file Christians. Amid the dark corners of life and discipleship, saints (including the martyrs) cast light upon the journey. How can we link these theological vectors of sainthood, the heroic and the exemplary? Cunningham offers a definition of sainthood that includes what he regards as the most profound facets of the Catholic understanding of sainthood while resisting its excesses and integrating insights from the Protestant traditions.148 Drawing from William James’s phenomenology of sainthood, he offers this definition: “A saint is a person so grasped by a religious vision that it becomes central to his or her life in a way that radically

154  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence changes the person and leads others to glimpse the value of that vision.”149 In Christian terms, this definition highlights the saint as a person who has been transformed by an encounter with Christ such that her very character is changed in a way that makes her “eccentric” with respect to the ethos of her contemporary culture.150 This spiritual encounter and its attendant eccentricity lead in the saint’s life on the one hand to a “diminution” of self, which is often displayed in asceticism, and on the other hand to a profound influence on those around her. According to Cunningham, this means that the saint serves (in Tillich’s language) as a “sign-​event” that models and exemplifies the value of the Christian way of life and prophetically critiques more tepid ways of living that life.151 In Karl Rahner’s words, the saints “prove that a certain form of life and activity is a really genuine possibility; they show experimentally that one can be a Christian even in ‘this’ way; they make such a type of person believable as a Christian type.”152 In Cunningham’s view, these dimensions place the saint at the “cutting edge” of the Christian church as it moves through history, as they are “the harbingers and the prophets of what the Church needs to be and needs to do in a given historical moment.”153 Cunningham’s approach to sainthood represents, among other things, an anti-​elitizing of sainthood that is broadly consonant with a Protestant theology of sainthood. One key element is his suggestion that it would be better to see the miraculous as incidental to true sainthood rather than one of its essential components: “A good case could be made for saying that the miraculous is only per accidens a characteristic of heroic sanctity and as such should be treated as an element that could well suffer a bit of benign neglect.”154 In contrast, Richard Kieckhefer argues that diminishing the role of the miraculous would significantly alter the traditional Catholic conception of sainthood, making the saints “essentially imitable” rather than “marks of a special numinous presence upon the earth.”155 In his view, there is an advantage to stressing the otherness of the saints, even if it may hinder the saints from serving as exemplars. Another option would be to reimagine and broaden what is meant by the “miraculous” in a way that is more consonant with exemplarity. Jon Sobrino suggests just this in his reflections on the witness of Archbishop Romero (especially in view of the Vatican’s slowness to beatify or canonize the Salvadoran martyr). Sobrino regards the whole life and ministry of Romero—​moving as he did from a less engaged traditionalism to an active participation in the struggle of the Salvadoran people, even unto death—​as a miracle of God: “It was God’s miracle, and the people’s, that Oscar Romero

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  155 was to become practically the opposite of what he was elected to be.”156 “I am with you, Archbishop Romero told the people, and they knew he was telling the truth. This miracle does not happen every day.”157 In Sobrino’s view, the radical witness of the martyrs, as paradigms of sainthood, helps us to realize what is really possible: [The martyrs] leave us good news, a gospel. On this sinful and senseless earth it is possible to live like human beings and like Christians. We can share in that current of history that Paul calls life in the Spirit and live in love, in that current of honesty, hope, and commitment that is always being threatened with suffocation but that time and again bursts forth from the depths like a true miracle of God.158

On this view, it is the Christian life itself, as lived in a bold and essentially evangelical way, even in the face of danger, that is a genuine miracle, not in the sense of being supernatural (though perhaps it also qualifies as that), but in the dual New Testament sense of being a sign and a work of God. The miracle of Romero’s sanctity is that it shows the possibility of real holiness lived in the Christian life, real holiness open to all. This democratizing can be taken even further. With Calvin’s reading of “saints” as “all the faithful” in mind, it is necessary to ask whether the heroic dimension is really essential to Christian sainthood. It is of course true that even Catholicism has recognized the “communion of the saints,” those Christians of the rank and file, especially on All Saints’ Day, even while it has elevated the canonized saints as a higher caliber of Christian.159 As we saw with Calvin, however, the Protestant churches have tended to employ the language of sainthood mainly in the more egalitarian sense. What this means, then, is that it may be not heroic sanctity that marks the saints but something along the lines of “faithful witness,” which can run a spectrum from heroic to mundane forms. Faithful witness is more compatible with the recognition, one integral to a realist perspective, that all Christians are flawed, sinful, needful human beings. Here we must remember the Bible’s conviction that God still works, sometimes in astounding ways, through such damaged vessels, and that their faith and action can also display the possibility of genuine faith for all Christians. Furthermore, it would be a kind of example that truly reflects the ambiguities and dilemmas of life, the ambiguities and dilemmas that Christians regularly encounter as they live their lives within the real world. This would mean seeing “saintly” exemplarity as

156  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence miraculous in the sense of displaying something noticeably true, good, and beautiful, something genuinely righteous, just, and compelling, in the course of navigating what Bonhoeffer describes as the relativities, ambiguities, the more or less good and more or less evil of life, sometimes experienced as moral twilight.

The Criteria of Martyrdom (III) Here we must return to the main thread of this book. Martyrdom is one of the central categories of Christian sainthood. As we have seen, martyrdom remains—​dating back to the early church, but perhaps especially in Protestant theology—​the very paradigm of sanctified witness. Dying to self in service of Christ and living in a new way through the Spirit can lead, in a hostile world, to an actual death of the self that can be endured because of the promise of resurrection. The realist ethic, broad sense of vocation, and egalitarian conception of sainthood advocated in this chapter point toward leaving open the possibility of martyrdom in the course of wielding the sword. This requires us to revisit our emerging criteria of Christian martyrdom. We must begin by recalling where we left these criteria at the end of Chapter 2: 1b. The martyr is killed for something integral and distinctive to Christian faith—​identity, beliefs, or actions central to the Christian life. 2. The martyr refuses to “opt out” of death by compromising on those elements integral to his faith. 3. The martyr is not seeking death but aiming for faithfulness in discipleship. 4b. The martyr displays loving self-​renunciation in accepting the risk of death, thus showing the recognition that life itself is not the highest good and thereby genuine preparation for the end of life before God. 5. The martyr, in her life and death, sheds light on something distinctive and true about the ministry and death of Jesus and about following him. 6. The martyr offers a compelling narrative that invites those who read it or hear it to live, believe, and act in a similar way.

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  157 The perspective argued in this chapter makes it necessary to emphasize that martyrdom requires not perfect or heroic but genuine faith and faithfulness. While some martyr and saint stories from the Christian past (as well as the Christian present) may portray their protagonists as heroic, infallible, and pure, it must be insisted that a genuine faithfulness and hence exemplarity are also possible in ways that reflect the brokenness and ambiguities of human life and the Christian life. As John Roth writes, “Many Christian martyrs, on closer examination, are revealed to be deeply flawed people. Though many seem to have absolute clarity at the moment of their demise, in the time leading up to their deaths they are often—​like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane—​filled with deep doubts and uncertainties. And frequently, the circumstances surrounding their deaths prove to be more complex than they appear at first glance.”160 Accordingly, criterion 2 could be revised to acknowledge elements of frailty, ambiguity, and even failure along the martyr’s journey toward death: 2b. The martyr ultimately refuses to “opt out” of death or the greater risk of death by compromising on those elements integral to his faith, even though the path to such resolve may include frailty, fear, missteps, and ambiguity.

There are instructive examples of this in the martyrological traditions of the church. Perhaps, as with some of the second century martyrs of Lyons, a Christian’s faith is young and immature when first confronted with persecution; it is only in the longer term that the strength and resilience to endure death for Jesus emerges.161 In the sixteenth century, English archbishop Thomas Cranmer’s eventual repentance (and symbolic burning of his right hand) for previously signing a false recantation of his Protestant convictions shows not a faith that is impervious to fear but one that, through a hard reliance on the power of God, eventually overcomes that fear through struggle and return.162 Or, prior to his appointment as archbishop, Óscar Romero’s career displayed an unwitting albeit pious rapprochement with an unjust social status quo that was inconsistent with the justice of Christ’s kingdom. Similarly, criterion 5 would need to be qualified: 5b. The martyr, in the struggle of her life and death, testifies—​sometimes painfully and even through moments of failure—​to something distinctive

158  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence and true about the ministry and death of Jesus and about the path of following him.

The presence of those elements in the life of a martyr may actually amplify the exemplarist dimension of his or her witness. Most Christians—​ensconced as they are in the real world, with its fears, ambiguities, dilemmas, and its failures—​can identify with Romero’s initial reticence, with Cranmer’s fearful compromise, with the possibility of having a fragile faith that struggles with the ultimate test of its veracity. We should be able to sympathize with the Christian soldier’s dilemma of what it means to show due restraint and protection of the innocent while wielding deadly force, for we experience versions of that dilemma in our everyday life of faith, even in occupations far removed from the sword. Recognizing martyrdom—​which is to say, genuine witness and faithfulness unto death—​in the presence of such complicating elements is, at heart, a testimony to the work of God’s Spirit. It is proof that God is working through and despite failure; it is proof that the Christ who calls his followers to be willing to give their lives for him is working to make them capable of that even at those points in life when they are not (yet) so capable or at points in life where the way is unclear.163 If genuine martyrdom—​ and hence real faith—​ is displayed even in Christians who are significant failures in some ways, then martyrdom (reflecting real faith) would seem to be possible for those Christians whose work in the world reflects not so much their own failures (though that might well be the case from time to time) as the fears and fissures of the world. If the just war tradition, especially in its more rigorous and aspirational expressions, is legitimate, then it would be inconsistent to define sainthood and martyrdom in such a way that all participation in second-​order violence is precluded. If a certain line of work can be a theologically meaningful calling, then real faithfulness must be possible in it. If it is indeed true that Christians can be soldiers and still remain genuinely Christian (or that Christians can pay taxes to support the military and benefit from the presence of the military, while still remaining Christian), then there needs to be a conception of sainthood capacious enough to include them. We have considered (in Chapter 4) a series of possible historical examples, although some of them reflect the dangers and complexities of the possibility. Nevertheless, in the Catholic tradition there are patron saints for soldiers, the archangel Michael and Saint George.164 If soldiers can have special saints, can they not also be saints, in the broadened Protestant sense of the term? If they can be regarded as saints,

Christian Calling and the Ideal of Martyrdom  159 then it would seem that in certain circumstances martyrdom is open to them, even as they wield the responsibility of the sword. In sum, what we are left with in a christological and eschatological rendering of life on history’s ongoing Holy Saturday is the recognition of a tragic cast to life. The reality of evil may require us to meet violence with violence; but the reality of evil can also be met by forgiveness since the character of the kingdom has already entered into the world through the Lord who is at work in Christians. It may even be—​however paradoxical and unwieldy in practice—​that grace and forgiveness can be conveyed in and through the meeting of injustice with second-​order violence. That this is true is the gamble of the just war ethic of magisterial Christianity, with the limits and restraints of the theory working to convey, however haltingly and imperfectly, the presence of grace and even love amid the pain and hostility of this world. If this tradition is correct, it may leave open in a tenuous way the possibility of violence being employed in the Christian life en route to martyrdom. If such occupations can be seen as callings for a Christian life, then they must be consistent with a Christian death, including a Christian death in the course of such an occupation. While not every Christian death is martyrdom, some are. Our final chapter will examine what such martyrdom might look like, in terms of what would qualify the Christian who bears the sword on behalf of the public good as a martyr if she died in the course of wielding the sword. For such a discussion to be more than simply a cheap justification of any behavior in such work as consistent with Christianity, it will require a distinctively Christian shape and the possibility of death not qualifying as martyrdom. This possibility means that martyrdom in sword-​bearing will also shed clearer light on what just war convictions (and their analogies in other areas of sword-​bearing) should look like in Christian terms.

7 Violence and the Christian Life in the Light of Martyrdom The Rhetorical Function of Martyrdom The introduction to this book offered a series of optical metaphors for the function of martyrdom, metaphors that have accompanied us along the way. As the Anabaptist tradition has insisted, martyrdom functions as a mirror when the martyr reflects Jesus in fundamental ways and when observers of the martyr’s story consider how well their own lives resemble the vision of the Christian life glimpsed in the martyr. Martyrdom functions also as a prism, separating out elements of the Christian life so that we can see them more clearly than usual—​for example, the moment of temptation and decision that usually takes dramatic form in a martyr story but is also seamlessly and quietly woven into the everydayness of the Christian life. And martyrdom functions as a lens, enabling its observers to focus on the specific texture of the Christian life and how it should be tethered to the self-​sacrificial ethos of Jesus. Finally, martyrdom functions to shed light upon the commitments involved in the life of faith, commitments and tasks that flow from the gift of renewal brought by the Spirit of Christ. In its work of pointing us toward Jesus, toward the life of following him, of lighting the way and focusing our attention on things we might miss, things we might rather ignore, martyrdom functions as an argument about the proper shape of the Christian life. There is a sense in which a martyr offers her life, choices, and fate as an argument about what faithfulness looks like. But it is mainly the Christian community, when it lifts up and labels a particular Christian’s story as martyrdom, that makes a claim about the shape of a cruciform life lived in hope of resurrection. In proclaiming a death as “martyrdom,” the ones proclaiming it announce that here we see a life Christianly lived. Here we have a light shining on the nature of faithfulness. Here we see what bearing the cross and believing in new creation look like. That is one of the reasons, as we saw in Chapter 2, why the martyrologies of the Anabaptist Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0008

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  161 tradition present such a compelling challenge. In calling Dirk Willems or Jan Gerrits a martyr and holding their stories up to us as a mirror, that tradition makes the case that the nonviolent peaceableness displayed by these disciples shows what discipleship is all about. While it is the Anabaptist churches that have used martyrdom most pointedly as a spotlight upon the contours of faithfulness, this function of the rhetoric of martyrdom is not limited to the peace church traditions. In calling someone like Dietrich Bonhoeffer a martyr, the argument is made that there, in a willingness to resist tyranny using conspiracy, misdirection, and even complicity in (second-​order) violence, tools and characteristics that are normally to be avoided by the Christian, there we witness a form of genuine discipleship. There we see something, albeit something possibly counterintuitive, of what it means to be faithful to the call of the Lord and the leading of the Spirit. There we learn a lesson about living the Christian life. If this approach to martyrdom is correct, if the proclaiming and narrating of martyrdom function as an argument about the appropriate shape of the Christian life, then it is all the more important that martyrdom not be restricted to a roster of superhuman, out-​of-​reach, inimitable heroes. By its very nature martyrdom highlights the choices of faith in extraordinary situations, situations that we understandably hope never to face, situations of extreme hostility and death. But these extraordinary situations are simply what ordinary faith must contend with when confronted with dire circumstances. The proclamation of martyrdom offers a reminder from extraordinary times about what faith should look like all the time, and thus in the ordinary times, which can quickly become extraordinary times. In talking about the life of faith, or “the Christian life,” it is important to remember a proviso registered early in this book, namely, that it is best to avoid over-​spiritualizing or over-​privatizing the phrase. Theologically speaking, “the Christian life” does not refer only to our introspective selves or our “soul” in private and abstracted communion with God. It refers, rather, to the whole of one’s existence before God and in service of Christ. While the modern secularized West may insist that religious matters be restricted to the privacy of the home or stay sequestered in the interiority of the self, and while certain forms of Christianity may assert a rigid division between spiritual realities and secular matters, Christian theology at its best—​so it seems to me—​offers a more holistic view of the Christian life. This follows from the Protestant approach to Christian “calling”/​“vocation” that was explored in the previous chapter. The call of God is not something

162  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence to which the human being is to respond merely in prayer or formal worship or a specifically religious occupation, but rather involves the whole self being beckoned into the world as a witness to the cruciform Lord and as a participant in the renovation project that is God’s kingdom. The Christian’s role in the state—​even when it involves participation in the “sword”—​is thus also called to participate in the divine renewal project and reflect the witness of a disciple of Jesus. If that is true, then the commitments of discipleship and the stance of witness should be visible in every arena of life in which the Christian is involved. “The Christian life” is just a way of talking about all of life lived Christianly, before God, as a witness to Christ. Martyrdom simply identifies ordinary witness that encountered unsought extraordinary circumstances and yet did not succumb.1 In this sense, any life lived Christianly is lived against the horizon of the possible extreme—​martyrdom. If so, then so also with second-​order violence wielded by the Christian. Sometimes, of course, violence is wielded wrongfully by Christians, which is symptomatic of the sinfulness that continues to lick at the heels even of those whose renewal in Christ has begun. Whether the impulsive hostile reaction to an insult, or violent self-​defense in situations where turning a cheek would have both unnerved the attacker and protected the dignity of the attacked, or especially unwitting participation in institutions, structures, and patterns that harm people, such sinful violence calls for repentance. But the kind of violence we are focusing on here is the peace-​directed, second-​order violence on behalf of the ordinary life and civic order that mainstream Christian ethics and often the individual Christian conscience have deemed licit. The central postulate of this book is that for such violence to be theologically justified, it must somehow be consistent with martyrdom in its wielding. In other words, if the use or threat of violence can sometimes be a legitimate aspect of the ordinary existence of a Christian, then it must be possible for that witness to be transformed into martyrdom in circumstances that bring premature death. What might that look like? Though it involves stepping away from direct reflection on martyrdom for a moment, a first ingredient is clarity about the overall picture of the world and responsibility that should inform the Christian. This requires us to tighten the belt on the kind of “realism” that should inform Christian just war thinking and action.

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  163

Restraining the “Necessities” of Realism The previous chapter examined a number of variations and connotations of the language of realism in the course of arguing for a perspective that here I will call “principled realism.” Built into the very terminology of “realism” as an ethical perspective is the conviction that deciding on right action depends significantly upon the specific reality that surrounds and informs us. In this way realism is a form of “contextual” or “situational” ethic. Christian forms of contextual ethics may be most notoriously associated with Joseph Fletcher’s Situational Ethics,2 but are more persuasively argued by thinkers like Reinhold Niebuhr and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who both received attention in Chapter 6, as well as Reinhold’s brother, H. Richard Niebuhr.3

Contextuality and Christian Realism H. Richard Niebuhr offers the image of “man-​the-​answerer” as a more apt and encompassing metaphor for the Christian moral life than the deontological “man-​the-​citizen” or the consequentialist “man-​the-​maker.”4 The “citizen” image of the moral agent focuses on ascertaining “What is the law?” and abiding by its rules; and the “maker” image focuses on figuring out “What is the good?” and pursuing such results; but the “answerer” portrait of the moral self asks, “What is going on?” and strives to act in a way that is “fitting,” that is, an action that “fits into a total interaction as response and as anticipation of further response.” Niebuhr suggests that the quest for such “fittingness” will likely also produce action that is oriented toward the good and can be judged right.5 He contends not only that this approach fits better with the actual dynamics of the moral life, but also that it resonates more fully than the “citizen” or “maker” images with the overall saga of the Bible: “At critical junctures in the history of Israel and of the early Christian community the decisive question men raised was not ‘What is the goal?’ nor yet ‘What is the law?’ but ‘What is happening?’ and then ‘What is the fitting response to what is happening?’ ”6 Similarly, as we saw in the previous chapter, Bonhoeffer rejects the idea that Christians have access to ready-​made answers to the question of right and responsible action in the form of laws, rules, and abstract principles. A responsible Christian action will be one that discerns the specific will of God in a particular time and place, taking into account the unique demands

164  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence of that particular situation. As we saw, Bonhoeffer insists that Christian ethical responsibility is found only in “genuine decision in which the whole person, with both understanding and will, seeks and finds what is good only in the very risk of the action itself, within the ambiguity of a historical situation.”7 The rightness of the decision is not justified by its agreement with general principles or rules; rather, it is justified by the judgment and forgiveness of God. If we return to the five-​or six-​act play model of the Christian drama that was discussed in Chapter 5 (from N. T. Wright), we will be able to couch Niebuhr’s and Bonhoeffer’s point about contextual responsiveness in more theologically concrete terms. Appropriate “response” or “answer” in the moment of the Christian’s life requires not only a sense of what is going on in that particular moment, but an awareness of where that moment sits in the broader biblical narrative. In Act 5, the Christian is called to testify, by the power of the Spirit, to the kingdom of Christ (Act 4 as begun with Israel in Act 3) that the triune God will eventually fulfill (Act 6). Yet the Christian does so in a world still plagued by sin (the lingering of Act 2) that also influences the Christian as she improvises an appropriate witness in Act 5 in answer to the challenges of the context that confront her. Thus, it is not just the exigencies of the contextual moment, but also the broader context and plot of this theological storyline, that ought to inform Christian realism. Whether in Niebuhr’s or Bonhoeffer’s sense of relational and situational “responsibility,” or in the form of just war discussions, contextual approaches to ethics—​especially those that fly under the banner of “realism”—​frequently couch the shape of responsibility in the language of “necessity.” Rather than abiding by inflexible principles or ironclad laws, the morally responsible person will do what is discerned to be “necessary” in a particular situation. The shape of appropriate action will be strongly influenced by the pressures of the situation and what they demand. But the plot of the biblical drama must also inform a Christian sense of “necessity.” Accordingly, we must further examine this language of “necessity,” as it has been both resilient and slippery in the context of military violence.

The Perils of “Necessity” This language of “necessity” has played a significant role in the rhetoric of the just war tradition, although its precise fit in the reasoning of the tradition is

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  165 complex. It is often said that it is “necessary” to resist aggression, or that in the face of aggression or tyranny it is “necessary” to resort to violence that we would forbid in ordinary life. That is, a country must do what is “necessary” to win a just war. Or it might be said that in war (or in analogous activities such as policing) it is important to use only the force that is “necessary.” Conversely, it is sometimes said that the demands of war make it “necessary” to break the rules of war, if that is the only way to win or to win with greater efficiency. In short, the language of necessity slips around in multiple directions, often pressing toward greater violence and less restraint. If so, then it should be of grave concern for Christian advocates of the just war, as the rationale for restraint as a function of cruciform love is probably the most distinctive facet of this tradition within Christianity (when informed by Acts 4 and 6 of the theological drama). In one of the most influential discussions of the just war in the past half century, Just and Unjust Wars (first published in 1977), Michael Walzer unpacks the logic and difficulties of military necessity.8 It is worth noting that Walzer focuses on how the notion of “necessity” often functions in cultural and military practice, even though that notion is considerably different from the stricter definition found in many military manuals.9 Nevertheless, his important discussion—​though nontheological—​is worth following at some length. His sections on “necessity” presuppose the overall structure of his analysis of the morality of war—​jus ad bellum as a utilitarian/​consequentialist calculation in the face of aggression; and jus in bello (which he calls the “war convention”), especially noncombatant immunity, as rooted deontologically in the duty to respect human rights. In ad bellum considerations the primary reasoning process is of a more consequentialist sort.10 The negative and destructive effects of aggression (against the integrity of a state and the well-​being of its citizens) are weighed against the negative and destructive effects of a defensive war (lives that are risked or expended through fighting), with the results of the calculus determining whether fighting is the best way to exercise political responsibility for the common good. The consequences of allowing aggression to run rampant or remain unchecked would produce a world that we wouldn’t want to inhabit. Accordingly, the collateral consequences of war are sometimes judged worth suffering (and inflicting) in view of the consequences of the just peace and order that victory would hopefully achieve. James Turner Johnson, in some contrast, stresses that the political responsibility facets of the ad bellum side of things (sovereign authority, just cause, and right intention) are deontological in nature.

166  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence They deal with the duty of the sovereign to address aggression and protect the common good. The other ad bellum criteria, including proportionality (Walzer’s focus), are prudential and consequentialist, and thus shape how a ruler carries out that responsibility.11 In sum, ad bellum involves a mixture of deontological and consequentialist elements. On this ad bellum side of the framework, a certain sense of “necessity” can emerge. While war is considered justified and hence permissible if an act of aggression has been committed against a state, it is often thought that if a state suffers real and serious aggression, the response of war is “necessary.” This sense of necessity pressures a state toward a martial and thus violent response to an act, threat, or state of aggression. Thus, the sense of war being the “necessary” response to aggression can prematurely short-​circuit some of the secondary considerations of the ad bellum side of the framework, such as the importance of war being a last resort or having a reasonable likelihood of victory. But, more appropriately, if the aggression is deemed grave, if other non-​martial approaches have been seriously considered or attempted, and if there is a reasonable likelihood of success, then the decision may be made that it is “necessary” to resort to war because only military activity will resist the aggression and resisting aggression is in no small part what government is for. Let us call this “ad bellum necessity.” It refers to circumstances in which aggression requires a resort to military activity, which then suspends the ordinary canons and expectations of life in pacis (in peacetime).12 When approached responsibly, it is the result of a serious process of reasoning, not merely a knee-​jerk reaction to aggression—​the latter we might think of as false ad bellum necessity. According to Walzer, the importance of winning a war produced by ad bellum determinations puts great pressure on the deontological shape—​that is, the duties—​of the in bello side of the just war framework.13 The perception of the “necessity” of winning can push a state, its commanders, and its soldiers toward actions that violate the rights of noncombatants. Those violations are, it is often said, “necessary” for victory.14 Yet the in bello demands of the just war ethic insist that the rules of moral fighting, of complying with justice and human rights, must be respected regardless of the circumstances. On this more strongly deontological, rule-​and principle-​bound side of things, Walzer contends, the language of necessity is frequently out of place. Walzer considers historical situations (usually via memoirs) where soldiers chose not to kill or attack enemy soldiers. He considers soldiers who encountered things about enemy combatants that brought features of their humanity

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  167 and even their defenselessness to the fore—​such as the enemy solder who at the time is naked (because taking a bath). Because they were not civilians and not prisoners, according to the rules of war they could be legitimately attacked.15 And attacking them would likely contribute to winning the war. But, Walzer explains, some of the soldiers who encountered these enemy combatants were struck by their evident humanity and, as they were not at that moment a real threat, opted not to attack them. This tells us something, he says, about moral reasoning in bello. It is rooted in the rights of other human beings, rights that we often sense ought not to be violated even at points when the laws might permit their attack. The operative principle, it seems, is that human beings who are not real threats should not be attacked, similar to the canons of life in ordinary peacetime (in pacis). Though technically combatants, functionally in these situations they were not combatant threats, and thus the moral intuition of some of the soldiers that Walzer considers is that they ought not to be targeted. This principle applies even more strongly to civilians and prisoners of war in their clearer noncombatant status. Walzer observes that the comparatively weaker side in a conflict often seizes the opportunity to attack even defenseless enemy soldiers, usually with an appeal to “military necessity,”16 though such language and logic are also used by more powerful militaries. What the term “necessity” means in such a context, according to Walzer (using language from a 1950s war manual), is that a certain method in war is “necessary to compel the submission of the enemy with the least possible expenditure of time, life, and money.”17 Though the language used is that of “necessity,” Walzer contends that it is actually “not about necessity at all; it is a way of speaking in code, or a hyperbolic way of speaking, about probability and risk.”18 What often flies under the banner of “necessity,” then, is a way of talking about choices in war and considering that some choices will be more likely to lead to victory. When used this way, the terminology of necessity can become a rhetorical tool that presses toward the violation of the rules of fighting justly or even the spirit of the rules (as in the case of the naked soldier, who according to the letter of the rules could be attacked).19 Strict necessity, argues Walzer, necessity in the actual sense, means that only this course of action will empower victory. And this strict sense of necessity is extremely rare, he writes, because “there will always be a range of tactical and strategic options that conceivably could improve the odds. There will be choices to make, and these are moral as well as military choices. Some of them are permitted and some ruled out by the war convention.”20 The risk/​reward calculus, according to Walzer, should be used

168  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence to make determinations about targets within the class of soldiers or integral military infrastructure, about which of them “need” to be killed and which do not “need” to be attacked in order to win the war.21 Let us call this “proper in bello necessity,” as it operates within the usual canons of in bello morality and the rules of just fighting. Walzer argues that this part of the tactical reasoning of war—​as well as the battlefield decisions made by actual soldiers—​ought to focus on legitimate military targets. The political identity of civilians, even if they belong to the enemy state, does not remove their basic rights as human beings.22 Often, due to the role of whole societies and their civilians in producing the economic conditions and raw material for a military effort, there is pressure to elide the combatant/​noncombatant distinction and attack the latter.23 Attacks on civilians who, say, produce food for soldiers is “necessary,” according to such a line of thinking. In such cases, Walzer argues, the rhetoric of necessity cloaks what is actually “only a piece of expediency.”24 We could think of this as false or “rhetorical in bello necessity,” where the rhetoric of necessity rationalizes a violation of the usual in bello requirements. In contrast to this merely rhetorical “necessity,” Walzer admits that there is a much more narrowly circumscribable sense of what he calls true necessity, rare situations of “supreme emergency” where only breaking the war convention and violating the rights of noncombatants can avert the unthinkable. This discussion, notably, comes in Walzer’s examination of the “dilemmas” of war, situations where the mandate to repel aggression and the mandate to protect the rights of noncombatants come into conflict with one another. Walzer captures the rarity and yet possibility of such genuine necessity in the statement “Do justice unless the heavens are (really) about to fall.” In such situations of supreme emergency we encounter “at last what can meaningfully be called necessity.”25 Let us call this “emergency in bello necessity.” Walzer argues that supreme emergency involves two criteria: imminent danger and serious danger, which is to say, danger of an “unusual and horrifying kind,” with Nazism understandably being his chief example. “It is possible to live in a world where individuals are sometimes murdered, but a world where entire peoples are enslaved or massacred is literally unbearable.”26 He acknowledges that the situation faced by Great Britain in 1940, when the British began “terror bombing” of German cities, probably qualified as supreme emergency.27 Those bombings violated the rights of innocent German civilians but were plausibly deemed truly necessary to avert the collapse of civilization. However, Walzer argues that “supreme emergency”

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  169 no longer applied from 1942 onward, when most of the Allied bombings of cities took place, including the United States’ nuclear attacks upon Japan, attacks that he characterizes as “a kind of blasphemy against our deepest moral commitments,” since they involved targeting civilian populations, were not strictly necessary, and yet we did them anyway.28 In our terms here, it was from that point on merely rhetorical in bello necessity, where the rhetoric cloaked an unnecessary violation of the rules of just fighting (i.e., a war crime), rather than actual emergency in bello necessity. In Walzer’s view, what I have labeled emergency in bello necessity does not involve modifying the rules of war so that ordinarily unacceptable actions are relabeled as acceptable (an approach that he calls the “sliding scale,” typical of rhetorical in bello necessity). Rather, it is a matter of a state’s leader deciding in extremis that the rules must be broken, even though such choices are lamentable and even tyrannical in their own way, because the alternative is unimaginable in its even more chilling atrocity. Walzer is worth quoting at some length: The sliding scale erodes the [war] convention bit by bit, and so it eases the way for the decision-​maker who believes himself “forced” to violate human rights. The argument from extremity permits (or requires) a more sudden breach of the convention, but only after holding out for a long time against the process of erosion. The reasons for holding out have to do with the nature of the rights at issue and the status of the men and women who hold them. These rights, I shall argue, cannot be eroded or undercut; nothing diminishes them; they are still standing at the very moment they are overridden: that is why they have to be overridden. Hence breaking the rules is always a hard matter, and the soldier or statesman who does so must be prepared to accept the moral consequences and the burden of guilt that his action entails.29

In the case of bombing cities in a time of actual supreme emergency, Walzer calls for honesty rather than equivocation or demonizing of the enemy’s civilian population or redrawing the rules of war: “If one is forced to bomb cities, it seems to me, it is best to acknowledge that one has also been forced to kill the innocent.” We should use the word “murder,” he says, albeit for a good cause and arguably “necessary.”30 Taking up the commonly used metaphor of “dirty hands,” Walzer insists, in language that almost channels Bonhoeffer, that “though it may be the case that they had acted well and done what their

170  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence office required, [leaders with dirty hands] must nonetheless bear a burden of responsibility and guilt. They have killed unjustly, let us say, for the sake of justice itself, but justice itself requires that unjust killing be condemned.”31 In his awareness of how open to misuse or misapplication this acknowledgment is, Walzer emphasizes that true “necessity,” actual emergency in bello necessity that requires overriding the rules of war, really only applies when the very survival of the good, true, and beautiful is at stake: “The world of [true, emergency] necessity is generated by a conflict between collective survival and human rights. We find ourselves in that world less often than we think, certainly less often than we say; but whenever we are there, we experience the ultimate tyranny of war—​and also, it might be argued, the ultimate incoherence of the theory of war.”32 Rationally resolving the incoherence, he contends, would be to diminish the rights of human beings and to weld injustice more integrally onto the scaffolding of the just war. Legitimate emergency in bello necessity requires the acknowledgment that the realities of tyrannical injustice not only make a just and restrained response difficult, but on occasion they make it impossible.33 For Walzer, such instances are rare: Mostly morality is tested only by the ordinary pressures of military conflict. Mostly it is possible, even when it isn’t easy, to live by the requirements of justice. And mostly the judgments we make of what soldiers and statesmen do are singular and clearcut; with whatever hesitations, we say yes or no, we say right or wrong. But in supreme emergencies our judgments are doubled, reflecting . . . the deeper complexities of our moral realism; we say yes and no, right and wrong.34

Clarifying “Realism” The preceding discussion has teased out four senses of “necessity” that relate to just war reasoning. First, there is ad bellum necessity—​the conclusion by the sovereign authority of a state that it is necessary to suspend the rules of life that apply in pacis because only war will repel or repair a serious threat or aggression. Second, there is ordinary in bello necessity—​the choices made between tactics and which combatants are necessary to attack in order to secure victory.35 Third, there may be emergency in bello necessity, exceedingly rare situations where civilizational survival is actually at dire risk such

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  171 that only violating the immunity of noncombatants will make victory and hence survival possible. These first three must be firmly distinguished from the fourth—​merely rhetorical necessity at both the ad bellum and in bello levels, rhetoric that gives the misleading impression that no other choices are possible other than prematurely hastening to war or disregarding the responsibilities of just fighting. In truth, this fourth sense of necessity violates just war reasoning. And the third—​emergency in bello necessity—​stands in an indeterminate relationship to the just war ethic. These four senses better equip us to judge between variants of “realism.” As a category, “realism” is typically distinguished from “idealism,” the optimistic position that a right application of knowledge and values will be able to produce a society in which conflict and violence are progressively eradicated. One of the chief characteristics of the construct of idealism is its confident belief in the possibility of a world in which peace dawns because there are no pervasive moral tensions. Some forms of pacifism thus qualify as idealism.36 The less optimistic expectation that conflicts, including those of a moral nature, will always be with us is the common denominator of views that fly under the banner of “realism.” In one of her earlier writings Jean Bethke Elshtain defines the usual sense of realism as the view that a power struggle between sovereign states is the world’s basic condition, where “struggle is endemic to the system and force is the court of last resort.”37 This world of realpolitik, which Elshtain associates with Hobbes and Machiavelli, is dominated by power plays and stands almost beyond the realm of moral discourse. In this perspective, moral tensions are vanquished in a very different way than in idealism; they are rendered impossible by the inevitability of intractable conflict. Walzer criticizes this form of “realism” (also with Hobbes in mind) as the view that “war lies beyond (or beneath) moral judgment. War is a world apart, where life itself is at stake, where human nature is reduced to its elemental forms, where self-​interest and necessity prevail.”38 In this perspective, moral language and the claims of justice are essentially meaningless, telling us little more than the speaker’s “appetites and fears and nothing else.”39 Accordingly, it is worth labeling this perspective as “cynical realism.” It is not only cynical in its read of the world as stuck with intractable conflict, but also cynical in its reduction of morality to self-​interest.40 In contrast, however, Walzer rightly insists that moral language appeals to reasons rather than mere self-​assertion and observes how common it is to talk about decisions in war as “agonizing,” because of the ways that the actual dictates of morality pull us in countervailing directions.41

172  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence Walzer (along with Augustine, Bonhoeffer, the Niebuhrs, Ramsey, Johnson, Elshtain, and Biggar) points to a possibility beyond the morally reductionistic extremes of utopian idealism and cynical realism. Some mappings of the options simply use the term “just war” to label the belief that the human penchant for aggression signifies, lamentably, that conflict and war will always be with us, yet insists on the possibility and necessity of morality applying even to war.42 That approach, however, forfeits the term “realism” to the cynical realists. Despite the risk of some misunderstanding, I believe there are good reasons to retain the terminology of realism in the mediating position to which the Christian just war tradition belongs.43 Reinhold Niebuhr embraces the term “realism.” Elshtain tinkers with the language of “modified realism” for just war thinking.44 Johnson regularly characterizes the just war tradition in terms that appeal to the nature of reality: “[It] proceeds from a deeply rooted assumption that the world of human history will always be one in which violence is present, in which values are threatened by the forces of injustice and evil, and in which such peace as is achieved is always, by nature, limited and temporary and can never be expected to become universal and eternal.”45 And none of these thinkers endorses the banishing of morality that is characteristic of cynical realism, even though they affirm the need for contextual responsiveness and the need for second-​order violence in the face of aggression that threatens basic human flourishing. War is sometimes the proper response to severe aggression. At the same time, to take such military activity beyond moral distinctions, such as that between combatants and noncombatants, would be to lapse into “moral nihilism.”46 For his part, Walzer’s recognition of moral conflict and even incoherence in situations of supreme emergency bears superficial resemblance to cynical realism. However, Walzer places even that immoral activity under the judgment of morality. His insistence on noncombatant immunity never flinches, even as he contemplates the terrible rare “need” to violate it. This is a sort of realism, yet one worth distinguishing from cynical realism, refusing as it does to displace the force of certain principles, even when they must be overridden. In other words, the difference between actual necessity and merely rhetorical necessity also differentiates between just war realism and cynical realism. I propose that we think of this middle ground as principled realism, both because of its acknowledgment that the real world places difficult choices and thorny dilemmas before us, and because of its frank acknowledgment that moral principles (and for Christians, theological principles)

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  173 must inform how we approach those choices and dilemmas.47 There is something arguably more “realistic” about such an approach in that it never tries to turn away from the moral sensitivities (compressed into the form of principles) that mark genuinely human life, whereas the cynical variety turns a blind eye to crucial features of humanity’s historic and ongoing life together. What, then, would be the key distinguishing marks—​especially at a theological level—​of a Christian “principled realism” in contrast to “cynical realism”? Elshtain suggests that an “ontology of peace” inherited from the Bible is a key characteristic.48 In terms of the biblical drama, Act 1 (creation) and Act 6 (new creation) show that created and promised shalom is the fundamental truth about the world; conflict, aggression, and violence are merely a doomed misdirection of the world’s fundamental goodness. When the just war tradition countenances the use of violent force, at its best it does so from a clear-​sighted vision of just peace as the goal, with that vision of peace serving as a check on the means of violence and critical leverage against unjust configurations of society.49 Already suggested here is a second characteristic of principled realism, that of a profound awareness of eschatological incompleteness. Act 6, the kingdom of God, when swords and guns become farm implements, is not yet with us. Sin—​the enduring residue of Act 2—​remains around us and in us. Yet the expectation and hope of the kingdom’s full coming, as already seen and secured in Christ (Act 4), is a check against the tendency to lapse into cynical expectations that the fire of aggression can only be met by counter-​ aggression or that in counter-​aggression the question of what means to use becomes superfluous. In the eschatological in-​between (Act 5), we face a situation of ambiguity and even tragedy, one that is produced in part by ethical principles that are norms for the Christian moral life. Third, we must remember from Bonhoeffer a theological affirmation that Walzer only nods at in his philosophical and legal discussion of war, namely, the possibility of Christ’s forgiveness and reconciling power holding our moral selves intact, even at moments when we must venture into the territory of wrong as our best effort to approximate the right. For the Christian, the ambiguities of Act 5 are held in check by the redemptive significance of Act 4 and the Spirit’s presence with us on the way to the promised Act 6.

174  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence

Principles in Context If the previous section’s analysis is correct, the contextual facet of the just war ethic’s “principled realism” prevents it from being purely deontological, that is, a simple matter of following rules and abiding by principles. There is no law or rule of war, whether ad bellum or in bello, that stands fully outside of the need for human discernment and contextual awareness. At the same time, the tradition posits principles and rules basic to its moral center, perhaps especially when held by Christians. For example, if noncombatant immunity is removed from the just war ethic, its moral center is severely compromised. Christians have every reason to follow Walzer in emphasizing the rarity of actual emergency in bello necessity and acknowledging it as the murder of innocents. And Christians should probably also be exceedingly skeptical of whether it is ever necessary to target noncombatants in war’s intended passage toward a just and viable peace. One of the instabilities of the just war framework is the way in which principles and rules can be shunted aside in the pressures of the moment via merely rhetorical necessity. Such pressures can give the impression that the considerations of just war conviction are little more than dispensable advice or optional aspirations. Accordingly, we need to consider what rules and principles are doing in a principled realist framework, such as that of the just war. It will be helpful to return to Bonhoeffer’s expression of realism. As we saw in the previous chapter, he describes the situation of moral decision-​making as frequently a “twilight” where a purely right choice is unclear or nonexistent. He rejects reliance on abstract laws and principles as a hiding place for the Christian actor, primarily because of the way in which they can be used for purposes of self-​exoneration or self-​justification, in place of reliance on Christ’s forgiveness. However, the way that Bonhoeffer characterizes the situation may lose sight of the fact that rules and principles—​while not covering every possible contingency—​are in play in the moral life and the Christian life for good reason. They represent the accumulated practical wisdom of political and religious communities that provide critical leverage for our engagement with the situation of the world. In emphasizing the contextual element of realism and in criticizing appeal to rules and principles, Bonhoeffer’s approach risks decoupling moral agents from dependable guides, guides that are dependable because of their source (e.g., divine revelation) or their refinement in the course of past moral life (i.e., tradition).

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  175 In actuality, principles are always at work in the contextual deliberations of the moral life. Decisions about how to navigate our moral landscape involve more than mere whim, desire, or instinct. If reasons are informing what we do, how we do it, why we do it, and why we strive to avoid certain actions, situations, and dispositions, then principles of various kinds are always in play. To be sure, principles never stand alone, arising as they do from experience, broader theoretical frameworks, and (in theology) the biblical drama. Principles are portable compressions of more complex realities. Yet they bear those realities in more convenient, actionable form. Contextual discernment involves the weighing and prioritizing of guidelines and principles, not the abandonment of them. Bonhoeffer’s response to Kant’s view of truthfulness is telling. As we saw in Chapter 6, Bonhoeffer accuses Kant of drawing a “grotesque conclusion” when Kant’s commitment to the inviolable principle of truthfulness leads him to say that a murderer should be answered honestly if he asks whether the person he is trying to kill has hidden out in my house. Bonhoeffer thunders: “Here the self-​righteousness of conscience has escalated into blasphemous recklessness and become an impediment to responsible action.” Kant’s scenario “glaringly illuminates the merely partial response of a conscience bound by principles.” Responsibility in the overall situation, Bonhoeffer argues, requires one “to lie energetically” to save a life.50 I am inclined to think that Bonhoeffer is correct, but my judgment results from the application of a principle, that of the mandate to protect innocent life. It is not so much a nebulous “contextual responsibility” in lieu of principles, but a judicious weighing of principles and values. To be sure, the weighing and disentangling of principles requires a sense of what is going on in the situation, but nevertheless it is a matter of considering and prioritizing important principles that we recognize as having a claim upon us. Deciding to tell the lie to save a life does not mean that telling a lie, as a general rule, is a good thing, but that the principle of preserving innocent life is being accorded priority over the principle of telling the truth. In short, even the most “contextual” reasoning usually involves principles and even rules, but it includes working through tensions that can erupt between them in the course of the unpredictability of life. For example, Clifford Green, in showing that neither Bonhoeffer’s peace ethic nor his participation in attempted tyrannicide were based on general principles, nevertheless points to certain principles that informed Bonhoeffer (just war principles, tellingly): the killing of a tyrant “is a particular act, done in freedom, not the application of a general principle; it occurs only in a specific case of extreme necessity and as a last resort.”51

176  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence While Bonhoeffer’s language is misleading when it suggests the jettisoning of rules, laws, and principles, he is undoubtedly right that a single principle or rule is never enough. The dynamics of a situation must inform how we negotiate the various principles and rules that lay claim to us in the moral life. Rather than regarding a static and straightforward rule or principle as obvious and self-​standing, thereby relying on the “law” in order to avoid actually acting, it is necessary to weigh and apply principles. The “twilight” that Bonhoeffer speaks of, from this standpoint, is the tension and clash of principles, or their unclear application, or our unsure weighing of them. And in fact, Bonhoeffer himself allows for a muted use of principles. For example, as already quoted in Chapter 6, he writes that “those who are responsible act in their own freedom, without the support of people, conditions, or principles, but nevertheless considering all existing circumstances related to people, general conditions, or principles.” The secondary role allotted to principles means that they inform the action chosen, but are never a means “by which [the Christian] can be exonerated and acquitted.” Right before this statement Bonhoeffer writes of the role of the Ten Commandments and the dual law to love God and neighbor, as well as even the “law of the natural conscience,” as having a legitimate bearing on responsible action. Bonhoeffer recognizes that conflicts may arise between these considerations, which must be resolved by “freely decid[ing] in favor of Jesus Christ,” who alone can grant unity of self and forgiveness to those who take on guilt in the course of their responsible action.52 Elsewhere Bonhoeffer even uses the language of obedience to talk about responsible action in the Christian life, relating it tensively to freedom. Again with Jesus as his paradigm—​serving the Father freely and joyfully—​Bonhoeffer writes that “obedience without freedom is slavery, freedom without obedience is arbitrariness. Obedience binds freedom, freedom ennobles obedience. . . . Obedience knows what is good and does it. Freedom dares to act and leaves the judgment about good and evil up to God.”53 In short, I contend that the importance of freedom and unshirked responsibility that comes through in Bonhoeffer’s version of Christian realism is better understood not as a rejection of rules, guidelines, and principles, but as an acknowledgment of their finitude and overlap. The complexities and dilemmas of life create tensions between principles and rules of the moral life, such that choices have to be made about what, overall, is the best way to serve God and give witness to Christ in the fray of life, what is the best way,

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  177 overall, to pursue genuine justice and to better approximate in this finite and flawed world the shalom of the coming kingdom. Acknowledging the role of principles is a middle ground between (1) organizing the moral life by reference to ironclad “laws” that must be obeyed and (2) a slippery and toothless “situationalism.” Recognizing principles means acknowledging that they have significant (though not absolute) normative force. It involves the fact that they need to be applied and weighed. And such weighing involves the fact that some have a more strongly deontological cast—​this is reliably right. Some of the stronger ones take form, then, as rules (you shall not murder; treat suspects as innocent until proven guilty; love your neighbor as yourself; do not target civilians). Other principles, however, have more of a consequentialist and prudential shape—​this usually yields good results (going out of your way to protect civilians, showing respect even to those who appear worthy of scorn, will build trust and goodwill). This principled realism avoids the poles of an idealism that has no place for ethical tension and a cynical realism that loses sight of ethical principles. Its features are (1) its acknowledgment of tensions and even conflict between the moral principles that lay claim to us and (2) its serious acknowledgment of the normative claim those principles place upon us. Albeit from a nontheological perspective, Walzer’s just war framework includes both of these features of principled realism. The immunity of noncombatants from direct and intentional attack is inviolable; yet the responsibility to protect the common good in rare situations of supreme emergency when the good, true, and beautiful are under dire and imminent threat may mean that other principles override the principle of noncombatant immunity. In his view, they do not set it aside, but they violate what is inviolable. Amid such moral tragedy the wrong must be acknowledged as wrong, even when done in quest of another right. What Walzer writes in philosophical terms is generally consonant with what Christian advocates of the just war have argued—​figures such as Augustine, Aquinas, Ramsey, Johnson, Elshtain, and Biggar—​from a more overtly theological point of view (though they vary on the question of supreme emergency). What Walzer grounds in the language of international human rights and in a commonsensical appeal to human moral experience and sensitivities, Christians ground in the call to love our neighbor, whether that be the members of our society or even our enemy. What results is a broadly defensible though never fully coherent ethic that allows for the use of second-​order violence in a love-​driven quest of the peace and justice that

178  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence are threatened by first-​order violence, but restraining that second-​order violence in meaningful ways that show love to noncombatants in the line of fire and even to enemy soldiers and the enemy state as those who are also loved by God and created in the divine image. There is a biblical and theological logic to this point of view, as we can see by again applying the five-​ or six-​act play model of the scriptural drama: namely, that the dynamics of sin, fear, and aggression that characterize history (Act 2) before the eschaton (the forthcoming Act 6) make justice and a peace short of shalom necessary expressions of love. It falls shy of full coherence by the dissonance experienced in trying to kill an enemy while also being called to love him or her (in the tragedy of Act 5 that will ultimately become comedy via divine action in Act 6).

Illuminating the Twilight in Principled Realism It is the second of the characteristics of principled realism—​namely, its principles—​that appears to be hardest to maintain. In other words, principled or restrained realism, in its acknowledgment of tensions between clashing principles in the moral twilight of life, can slip toward its more cynical cousin, the realpolitik that only allows for power dynamics. As we saw in Chapter 3, this is a key complaint of John Howard Yoder about the just war tradition, which he thinks could be a natural ally of pacifist Christianity. He points to a variety of historical factors as weakening the restraints on violence that are part of the historic just war ethic, including the rise of new technologies of destruction that are tempting in what they offer and the merely rhetorical appeal to “necessity” that we have already discussed.54 In his view, this has “hollowed out the tradition to little more than a shell.”55 The only way for the moral credibility of the tradition to be demonstrated, Yoder argues, is for its practitioners sometimes to conclude that war is not justified because the considerations/​criteria of the tradition are not met. Otherwise it is “not morally serious.”56 Whether or not Yoder is correct on the historical questions,57 his challenge is reasonable: the normative force of the principles of this ethic can be shown by means of the occasional honest conclusion that no force or less deadly force is a moral demand, even if it involves the possibility of losing. Just war advocate Biggar agrees, stating that a just war ethic “entails that the human defence of justice may not be conducted by any means and at all costs, and

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  179 that there will be occasions when its champions must lay down their weapons and pray God to defend what they themselves may defend no longer.”58 Some Christian versions of just war thinking would insist that this is the approach required in situations of supreme emergency: if the true, good, and beautiful cannot be pursued, defended, and reclaimed through conventional means congruent with justice, then it must be left to God to continue that pursuit. Others would follow Walzer’s line and allow for vanishingly rare occasions of emergency necessity, where the hideous nature of the aggression places civilized life under such repulsive threat that it may be “necessary” to break the ordinary rules of war in order to preserve the possibility of ordinary life after the conflict. In view of the available alternative of martyrdom, it should at very least be Christianly difficult to countenance the direct and intentional attack of civilians, as it essentially means resorting to terrorism as a tool of war. For those who do allow for such a possibility in rare and dire situations of supreme emergency, Walzer’s emphasis on the wrong remaining in full force even when it is committed toward what is right or good is an important reminder in the face of “necessity” being used as a rhetorical artifice to justify military transgression out of mere convenience or inertia. Recognizing the nature of true emergency necessity—​when the heavens actually are falling—​ should thus caution us against a rewriting of the rules and expectations of war (or policing, where the use of ordinary second-​order violence requires something domestically akin to “necessity” in this emergency sense). Examples are not hard to find. In the aftermath of the September 11 attacks in 2001, with the United States becoming militarily involved in Afghanistan and eventually Iraq, as well as other locations associated with terrorism, the practice of torture rose to the fore of national political debate in 2004. At the center of this debate was the US military prison in Abu Ghraib, Iraq, where army and intelligence personnel were found to have used a variety of abusive techniques, including those commonly thought to qualify as torture, in the course of interrogating and imprisoning suspected militants and terrorists.59 Though the US administration tried to deflect responsibility for these abuses onto the soldiers involved, news reports eventually confirmed that at least some of the techniques had been sanctioned by higher-​level officials in the Defense and Justice Departments under the euphemism of “enhanced” interrogation, even though they were known to violate international laws regarding the treatment of prisoners. The fact that acts of torture were euphemized and internal administration memoranda argued that international

180  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence law did not actually apply (“doth protest too much”) suggests that there was no illusion about a genuine “supreme emergency” truly necessitating these practices and policies. Walzer’s double criterion of imminent and serious danger threatening the very existence of the body politic clearly did not apply. It was a decision made in the interests of efficiency, not true necessity. In the context of this debate, Jean Bethke Elshtain offered a thought experiment regarding the use of torture as a tool against suspected terrorists. Using the scenario of a terrorist bomb hidden at an elementary school, with not enough time to evacuate children from all of the schools in a city, she poses the question of whether it would be Christianly permissible to torture a suspected terrorist who almost certainly possesses knowledge of which school houses the bomb. She contrasts her own approach to that of the deontologist who confidently asserts “Never!” to the prospect of using torture and to that of the utilitarian who can easily justify it in the name of the greater good. Rather, Elshtain contends, in language we have already seen in Niebuhr and Bonhoeffer, the Christian ought to be guided by “concrete responsibility of neighbor-​love and neighbor-​regard.”60 Like Walzer (to whom her essay repeatedly appeals), she says that the decision to employ torture should be seen as an overriding of a rule, not a rewriting of it, and she is willing to use the language of “wrong” to describe it. She insists that nations need leaders who are willing to incur guilt, not only in the course of tragic happenings in the normal operations of war, but also in extreme situations where they are called to set aside the usual rules in order to defend their citizens. In such a case, the responsible Christian leader puts the mandate to save innocent lives above his or her own moral purity. In breaking the rules, in doing what is wrong, they hope only for forgiveness, not only at the level of law and public opinion, but also from God.61 It is unsurprising that the Ethics and life story of Bonhoeffer are invoked by Elshtain. However, in contrast to Bonhoeffer and Walzer, Elshtain also takes some refuge in definitional equivocation. “Severe coercion” or “moderate physical pressure” or “torture lite” (terms that she borrows from an essay by Mark Bowden) are, she contends, sometimes going to be required in the unconventional war against the unconventional methods of terrorism.62 Here the purpose of Elshtain’s discussion, one that is theologically grounded (in contrast to Bowden’s piece), is not entirely clear: Is the distinction between obvious and horrific torture (think: fingernails being pulled off) and torture lite (think: denying sleep to suspects) intended to suggest that what torture is isn’t entirely clear? Is it intended to suggest that severe torture must remain

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  181 prohibited, but torture lite (because it isn’t actually capital-​T Torture) is permissible? Is it to suggest that “Torture” requires a situation of supreme emergency but “enhanced interrogation” should become (or remain) a normal part of the military, counterterrorism, and law enforcement playbook? Or is it to suggest that when the pressures of the moment require a breaking of the prohibition against torture, then the least damaging methods should be tried before the most damaging and horrific? Whatever her ultimate reasoning, Elshtain rejects a hard-​and-​fast rule, partly because “hard cases do make bad laws,”63 but perhaps also because a rule like that would infringe upon the more general rule about the wrongness and imprudence of torture and violations of human rights. Alongside the question of the moral permissibility of torture is the question of its effectiveness. While popular film and television (e.g., shows like 24 or Homeland) commonly give the impression that torture or other coercive methods are the only reliable way to extract information from suspects, it is uncertain whether it does reliably beget accurate information. There is reason to believe that the agony of torture methods is just as apt to lead those undergoing it to tell the interrogator whatever they think he or she wants to hear, anything to make the torture stop. In short, there is no small possibility of torture providing counterproductive information in a crisis moment when such misinformation can least be afforded. But even if Torture is sometimes effective, such methods may be counterproductive in the longer view. One of the tragedies of torture/​aggressive interrogation in places like Abu Ghraib or Guantánamo Bay (two American examples to which could be added the numerous countries throughout the world that use methods of torture as part of their normal political, military, and law enforcement tactics) is that no small number of those imprisoned turn out to be non-​terrorists, innocent of the charges or suspicions brought against them, sometimes brought there due to mistaken identity in relation to their name, race, ethnicity, or nationality. When methods of torture are used in such cases—​even if there is a sincere albeit ultimately incorrect belief that they actually are terrorists—​the result is the violation of a person’s dignity and bodily integrity (in Christian terms, the violation of the person’s status as a bearer of the image of God for whom Christ gave his life). Though this would also be a concern with those who are guilty of terrorism or who have useful sensitive information, since they remain image-​bearers, it would seem to be an especially egregious offense against those who are innocent. In such cases, furthermore, use of torture

182  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence poisons the prospects for future peace and naturally creates hostility among those who could potentially have been friends and allies.64 A key reason for the rules of war, especially the rules for treatment of noncombatants, that bear upon decisions of ordinary in bello necessity, including the rules against torture, is that restraint in war enhances the possibility of peace and repaired relationships on the far side of conflict.65 (Let us not underestimate how much creative imagination is required to implement this vision of things in the midst of the pain and bitterness of conflict.)66 Something similar applies in policing. Respecting the rights of suspects and displaying genuine restraint in law enforcement methods is important because suspects could turn out to be innocent, and thus are part of the community that most law enforcement officers profess the desire to protect in their sense of calling and in fact promise to protect in their oath of office. It is also necessary because a longer-​term vision of viable and effective policing involves positive and trusting relationships between police and community members, relationships that are quickly poisoned when bias or brutality violates those who are innocent (or even, for that matter, those who are guilty). In relation to race and class, the United States is a troubling example. The just war mentality, as, for example, with Walzer, typically does not absolutely rule out the possibility of the rare “necessity” of bending or breaking those rules, just as in policing there is a recognition that the ordinary threat of violence and resort to nonlethal measures may sometimes have to give way—​ only when actually necessary due to a situation domestically analogous to supreme emergency—​to deadly forms of second-​order violence. But the ordinary rules and expectations of war and policing are there for deontological and prudential reasons. They are there to guard the dignity of human beings, especially the innocent. And they are there to protect the possibility of peace after conflict. Even if it is not the original aggression, violating the principles of just fighting turns war into its own aggression. The wrong kind of second-​ order violence is transmuted into first-​order violence, in the process undermining the conditions for future peace.67 If, like Walzer and Elshtain, we are to allow for rare “necessary” violations in times of serious emergency, then admitting, lamenting, and honestly repenting for the wrongness of those violations—​rather than rationalizing or denying them—​is required if there is to be hope of peace beyond conflict. Principles and rules, provided that they are not absolutized as simplistically covering all situations without decision and discernment, are integral to the moral life. They illuminate the twilight. They are in place, first, because

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  183 they have been judged to be right and useful in the course of moral experience (and also, if theologically grounded, as revealed by God). They are also prudential guards against the law of unintended consequences. While principles sometimes have to be prioritized within the twilight of moral life, with one giving way to another or one overriding another, the wanton jettisoning of principles in quest of victorious results must be avoided. If it is true that evil begets evil, that one immoral act tends to produce other such acts and further destructive consequences, then the blatant violation of established moral rules and principles in the name of “necessity” should be rare. Abiding by principles and rules involves costs—​costs that can be endured in the recognition that violating principles frequently leads to greater costs, including the defacing of our character. In the context of violence, following our moral principles involves the acknowledgment that there are things more important even than winning, and that death is not the worst evil. The Christian would seem to be especially attuned to the possibility of convictions carrying such a steep price, a recognition seen in the value the Christian churches have placed on martyrdom. As an extraordinary window into the demands of the ordinary Christian life, martyrdom is an appropriate way into the Christian shape of just and faithful forms of bearing the sword.

Christian Soldiers and the Criteria of Martyrdom (IV) If a “sword-​bearer” is to be considered a Christian martyr when killed in the course of fighting (or using a weapon in the course of law enforcement, etc.), it is not simply because he or she is killed for fighting for a good cause, or for fighting with courage, or simply for fighting. For we typically do not call Christians who die in the ordinary course of life martyrs when they die. The Christian factory worker who dies due to a machine malfunction or a Christian killed in a car accident, even if possessed of stirring faith and witness, are seldom seen as “martyrs” in the technical sense. The language of martyrdom, at least as it has developed in Christian tradition, applies when ordinary faith prevails in extraordinary situations that pressure that faith toward apostasy or unfaithfulness. Martyrdom is faith withstanding such temptation even though it risks death, such that the path to death then constitutes an act of witness. Faithfulness unto death in such situations points to something crucial about Jesus and the life of being his disciple.

184  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence In the previous chapter we revisited and further modified our list of markers or “criteria” of Christian martyrdom: 1b. The martyr is killed for something integral and distinctive to Christian faith—​identity, beliefs, or actions fundamental to the Christian life. 2b. The martyr ultimately refuses to opt out of death or the greater risk of death by compromising on those elements integral to her faith, even though the path to such a conclusion may involve frailty, fear, and elements of ambiguity. 3. The martyr is not seeking death but is seeking faithfulness in discipleship. 4b. The martyr displays loving self-​renunciation in accepting the risk of death, thus showing the recognition that life itself is not the highest good, and hence genuine preparation for the end of life before God. 5b. The martyr, in the struggle of his life and death, testifies—​sometimes painfully and even through moments of failure—​to something distinctive about the ministry and death of Jesus and about the life of following him. 6. The martyr offers a compelling narrative that invites those who read or hear it to believe and act, to live before God, in a similar way. If these criteria are to apply to soldiers in the course of wielding the sword, it means there must be something noticeably Christian that informs and characterizes why or how they do their fighting (criterion 1). There may have been a way to minimize the risk to themselves by deciding not to integrate those fundamental features of Christian commitment into their way of fighting (criterion 2). The decision to fight in more, rather than less, of a “Christlike” way (words that I write in full awareness of their frightfully paradoxical quality) does not represent a death wish or a martyr complex, but is an attempt to exercise responsibility for the common good, to do what is right before Christ and to show love to their enemy-​neighbor (criterion 3).68 The willingness to face greater danger to the self by fighting in a restrained, respectful, and peace-​driven way is informed by a trust in the presence of God and the hope of resurrection (criterion 4). In surveying that soldier’s decisions, even her missteps along the way, and knowing something about her Christian identity, we, the observing community, glimpse something distinctive about Jesus and his way of life (criterion 5), something that beckons us, through the lessons of the story’s drama, to live faithfully (criterion 6).

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  185 It is obvious that this possibility takes us far beyond mere Christian identity or confession as cause for martyrdom.69 To return to the categories proposed in Chapter 1, we are squarely in the realm of the martyrdom of Christian action. Yet if the criteria as developed are anywhere near the mark, it should be clear that Christian action in this conscious sense is inseparable from Christian identity and a confession of Jesus as the Lord who claims our lives. In posing the possibility of Christian martyrdom as a possible result of soldierly activity, we must return to Ramsey’s contention that an Augustinian just war ethic is rooted in Christian love and a distinctively Christian sense of what justice looks like that transcends and challenges secular conceptions of justice.70 Since modern nation-​states understand their just war commitments more in terms of secular justice (or, all too often, a cynical realpolitik), then the way that a Christian participates in the “sword” of such states could and perhaps should be strikingly distinctive. Accordingly, Ramsey provides a helpful diagnostic question for us as we contemplate what it might look like to discern the witness of martyrdom in fallen soldiers: “In participating in warfare, is it his sense of justice and injustice or of what love requires that motivates the Christian?”71 Let us be guided by Ramsey’s question in a consideration of what might be noticeably driven by Christian love in a living out of the jus ad bellum and jus in bello facets of the just war ethic. It is worth noting that if the distinctively Christian reasons are unclear in one area, they would need to be clear in the other, at least if we are to be talking about martyrdom in the course of second-​order violence. Either way, a Christian manner of participating in war and other applications of the sword, and thus any consideration of martyrdom, involves not just why someone is fighting (ad bellum), but how they are fighting (in bello). In both cases, Christian faithfulness will have much to do with self-​sacrificially resisting premature or merely rhetorical “necessities” toward violence and within the use of second-​order violence.72

Ad Bellum In the ad bellum dimension of the just war ethic, genuine and justified war is a public act. In contrast to the private nature of a duel (duellum), war (bellum) is declared by the leader of a state;73 it is waged by soldiers who represent, defend, and are accountable to the populace; and it is aimed at the defense of the nation (or other innocent/​threatened parties, including the international

186  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence common good), its civic peace, and political integrity. That means that a martyrological consideration of the ad bellum canons of the just war requires attention to the various levels of society that are involved in war74—​command at political and military levels, the rank and file of those who do the actual fighting, and society itself, which is especially important in democratic forms of government. With the criterion of “just cause,” we are primarily in the sphere of command at the political level. It is the responsibility of governmental authorities (usually at the executive and/​or legislative levels) to discern whether an act or threat of aggression actually demands a military response. Since first-​ order violence can vary in its severity, discernment is required on whether second-​order violence is a proportionate and prudent response. If it is not a severe act or state of aggression, the wisdom of the just war ethic suggests that the response, at least initially, be of a nonmilitary nature. Even if the masses are clamoring for an immediate and brutal response, the responsibility of the sovereign (whether of an individual or corporate variety) is to remain mindful of the just cause requirement in a serious and honest way. And the responsibility of the populace, at least one that is politically and ethically guided by just war commitments, will be to caution its leaders to weigh the severity of the aggression and remain mindful of the danger of a premature resort to second-​order violence, or of an overly bellicose version thereof, spiraling into a cycle of worsening conflict. Put in our previous terms, it is important (especially for those operating out of a Christian sense of responsibility) to guard against merely rhetorical ad bellum “necessity” and to be seriously persuaded that war is truly necessary as a response to the aggression or threat. Therefore, contemplating how to address a “just cause” implies the further ad bellum considerations of “last resort” and “right intention.” Since acts of aggression come in degrees of severity, it is not only possible but in fact desirable, from a just war point of view, to respond to them in the least severe way possible, especially given the tendency of violence to mutate and accumulate. Hence arises the contemporary idea that a military solution—​that concerted and serious form of second-​order violence—​should be a last resort, the option chosen when less severe possibilities have been considered, tried, and found insufficient. For this consideration to be a serious principle, those who have the authority to declare war must entertain the possibility that, though an immediate and forceful military response to aggression might be the most effective option, it is not automatically—​at a moral and political level—​the

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  187 right and best option. Delaying a military response while resorting to less severe alternatives could potentially be a less effective option in the end; nevertheless, the just war ethic counsels it as, all things considered, a prudent approach. James Turner Johnson reminds us that “last resort” does not take priority over other ad bellum elements such as just cause and sovereign authority. Since there is always something else that can be tried, the language of last resort can give the misleading impression that war can never be justified.75 Last resort, as Johnson explains the matter, is a “prudential” consideration that shapes how the sovereign’s responsibility to act upon a just cause is carried out. Perhaps this facet of ad bellum reasoning would be better captured as the responsibility of political leadership to discern that war is the best resort in the face of a specific situation of aggression. Adhering to this prudential principle risks an unpopular response from the populace. As such, there may sometimes be a steep political price to pay for a rigorous approach to “last resort.” The Christian leader or politician may possibly experience this as a sacrifice of popularity and approval that is required by faithfulness. Christians in the populace, however, who are directed by a principled just war mentality may also need to be willing to risk a less efficient military strategy in the future, including greater loss of its own people’s lives, in order to ensure military violence is a best/​last resort. One reason is that the possibility of successful less invasive efforts means the possibility of a lower cost in lives, both among one’s own people and soldiers, and also the enemy’s people and soldiers, who also bear God’s image and are loved by Christ. The shadow of Hitler’s aggression and the retrospectively recognized folly of “appeasement” as the label for the unsuccessful nonmilitary attempts to dissuade him from further aggression obviously hangs over this point. It is a reminder that “last resort” is not an absolute and obvious principle, and that abiding by it is no guarantee of success. There is a potential military cost to it. Depending on the severity of the aggression and the mindset of the aggressor, best/​last resort may sometimes coincide with only resort, as George Weigel argued with regard to Islamist terrorism.76 Information that only government authorities have and careful (probably agonizing) discernment are required. Christians who have been trained to see the image of God in all, and who strive to see their enemies as objects of love, will be skeptical of claims that military intervention is the only possible resort (or, that the use of deadly weapons is the only possible option in domestic policing situations). But this facet of just war reasoning requires at least a serious consideration of other means of addressing aggression and resolving the conflict, simply because

188  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence of the tremendous and inevitable destructiveness of war. In the arena of last resort we must also bear in mind the challenge made by Yoder and others that a political arrangement whose financial and logistical investments in preparing for war dwarf its investments in justice and the possibility of peace has only a hollow claim to last resort or best resort.77 Beneath all of this lies the issue of right intention. When a people suffers some kind of attack or grievance that amounts to serious aggression, the clamor for an immediate equal and opposite, if not greater, military reaction is understandable. Depending on the nature and severity of the offense, it may even be an appropriate decision. To use one easy example, it is hard to take issue with the decision of the United States to respond to the Pearl Harbor attacks in 1941 with a declaration of war. But around the corner of that as a potentially correct decision is the possibility of the cry for war being merely an expression of a desire for vengeance and retribution,78 a desire to show the power of one’s nation, or a desire to use the other’s aggression as a pretext for eventual material or territorial gain.79 Around those corners we have returned to the rather cynical realpolitik mentality that the principled realism of the just war ethic (especially as understood and lived by Christians) ought to restrain. Taking the last/​best resort consideration rigorously is a check and guard upon right intention, both in the negative sense of avoiding vengefulness and hatred in fighting and in the positive sense of fighting toward a renewed just peace and even friendship. Both for those with the authority to wage war and those whose political assent is the ultimate source of that authority, the ad bellum side of the tradition in its modern form also typically insists on the principle of a “reasonable chance of victory.” This principle, like many of the others, is not absolute—​ for egregious tyranny may need to be resisted by doomed force as a symbol for the civilized world; the military history of the world includes not a few unlikely and unreasonable victories. It is, nonetheless, an important rule of thumb. Without a chance of success, the expenditure of one’s own soldiers’ lives is pointless and the taking of the enemy’s soldiers’ lives amounts to little more than a despairing expression of revenge. Those who see themselves as improvising Act 5 of the biblical drama in the narrative light of Acts 4 and 6 will be inclined to see alternative creative possibilities, even in suffering (and martyrdom?), when there is no chance of conventional victory. Thus far there has been little to say about rank-​and-​file soldiers in relation to these ad bellum considerations. Accordingly, there has been little reason to consider martyrdom, although we have brushed up against the category

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  189 of “confessor” at points where Christian willingness to bring proportionality, last resort, and right intent to bear on the responsibility to act on a just cause has introduced the possibility of disdain and political suffering. We have had little reason to consider martyrdom because it is seldom political authorities or high-​level military commanders who enact the second-​order violence of war and end up dying in the course of fighting. And it is not in the ordinary job description of soldiers to decide which of its nation’s causes justify war or to make the political and diplomatic efforts beforehand that make eventual war a last-​ish resort. As Ramsey summarizes, “The entire responsibility for . . . initiating the use of armed violence in defense of the public good was placed on the topmost legitimate political authority. The private citizen in his soldiering had not to reason why.”80 At the same time, morally and in terms of their dignity as human beings, to say nothing of the responsibilities Christian soldiers have to Christ as their primary sovereign, soldiers do have to decide whether to go to war. They do have to reason why. They are not automatons without agency or responsibility, even if their agency and responsibility is mainly tested in the in bello arena. Soldiers have decisions to make about being a soldier in general and whether they are willing to fight in a particular conflict. If a person is a pacifist—​persuaded of the arguments against the just war ethic—​it would be wrong for him to become a soldier. It would be what Cornelius Plantinga Jr. calls “subjective sin”—​the doing of something that is thought to be objectively wrong (even if that belief is actually incorrect), a knowing act against what is thought to be right.81 The militaries of many countries have procedures to allow for conscientious objection to military service.82 Similarly, if a soldier becomes a pacifist in the course of duty, it would be wrong for her to continue as a soldier. Most civilized countries, including the United States, have procedures to deal with a military journey into conscientious objection. Those nations that do not have such policies leave pacifist Christians in their midst little option but to accept the consequences for laying down their weapons. Depending on what those consequences are, we may find ourselves in the neighborhood of the categories of confessor and martyr. Procedures to accommodate soldiers who become conscientious objectors are of course no guarantee that soldiers who make such claims will be granted that status.83 One well-​known example in the United States is Kevin Benderman, whose application for CO status was denied; in 2005 he was demoted, jailed for more than a year, and then dishonorably discharged from the army. Whether or not that decision was correct, and though it is unclear whether faith played

190  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence a key role in his decision, Benderman echoes the Christian tradition’s language of “confessor” when he states, “I consider it an honor to be jailed for telling the Truth—​far better than to be condemned to Hell for following a blatant lie that would result in my being an accomplice to such an atrocity.”84 In the arena of ad bellum, we may distinguish between a Christian’s decision to become part of the military in general (especially important for countries with standing militaries even in times of relative peace) and his decision to fight in a particular context. With the former, one important presupposition would be a strong degree of trust in the moral and political moorings of his nation, at very least the expectation that those with the power to declare war will only invoke that fearsome power with genuine just cause and that those devising strategies for fighting will command only justified and discriminating means.85 Such trust is necessary given the lack of information that most citizens and soldiers have of their nation’s diplomatic efforts, its machinery of military decision-​making, and its highest levels of government. But at the personal level, it would also seem to involve the Christian’s view that fighting is sometimes a necessary but always lamentable way to protect others, one that could possibly require great cost to the self. At least if we are considering such decisions in relation to criteria for Christian martyrdom, patriotism in a merely nationalistic sense, or the desire for adventure, or the need for a steady paycheck would only be secondary considerations. It would be a serious and loving Christ-​directed sense of call to protect the people and structures of society that are most vulnerable. The question is hazier with selective conscientious objection. Is it possible for soldiers, rightly enrolled in the ranks of their country’s military, to object on Christian grounds not to war in general but to a particular military effort of their country? In such a case it would obviously not be a pacifist ethic that produces the objection, but probably an application of just war considerations.86 The soldier might find the enemy’s act of aggression to be comparatively minor, such that it is not really just cause for a military response. Or she might think that the military response is premature, thus taking credibility away from the last-​resort consideration. Or he might object to the in bello means that will be used. Whatever the case, if a soldier sincerely regards her nation’s military effort in a given case to be at odds with just war canons (rooted in a Christian sense of love and justice), the just war framework requires her not to go to war. For to do so would be to court disobedience to Christ. Many church traditions, incidentally, have recognized that selective conscientious objection is required for the just war ethic to be meaningful

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  191 and to be Christianly sanctioned. Just as it is possible for civilian political advisers to resign if they regard their country’s military decision to be unjust, so also it should be possible for a soldier not to fight in a particular context. Otherwise the Christian is entirely at the mercy of the government, which may have gone off its moral rails. However, many countries (e.g., the United States) refuse to give legal sanction to this selective variety of conscientious objection. Their laws have a place only for those who think that fighting is appropriate and affirm carte blanche trust in the decisions made by political and military leaders, or for those who think that fighting is never appropriate. In other words, in the United States at least, religious freedom applies to whether one adheres to the just war ethic, but not to its actual application (which is where the real content of the just war ethic is to be found). While governmental leeriness about abuse of a provision for selective conscientious objection and a breakdown of military discipline is understandable, this policy makes it difficult to situate a Christian principled realism as a middle ground between pacifist idealism and cynical, morally unmoored, realism. As Ramsey writes, drawing upon Augustine: “In Christian political theory, the mere fact that a man is a citizen elsewhere keeps him from being only a citizen here. By distinguishing two cities, Christianity corrected the implicit absolutism of loyalty to earthly kingdoms.”87 It is unsurprising that today’s earthly kingdoms are reticent to fully acknowledge this point. With the issue of deciding whether (or not) to fight in a particular conflict, the issue is clear in one sense and rather muddled in another. Given warranted trust in the moral course of a government and its military apparatus that one can enroll in the military in good conscience, the expectation is that one will follow orders and thus fight when and how one is commanded to do so.88 If selective conscientious objection is not a legal option, it might seem as if there are no real choices. However, Christians have known since the early church that the law is no defensible impediment to faithfulness. Just as patristic Christians or Reformation Christians were often willing to hold to their confession even when laws prohibited it, so also Christian soldiers have the option of refusing to fight when their Christian moral compass tells them that the particular choice of a conflict by their nation does not meet just war demands or otherwise goes against the will of God. Choosing not to fight for principled reasons would be unlikely to lead a Christian soldier to martyrdom, at least not by today’s Western practices. But it could lead to significant cost and even suffering of some kinds, including imprisonment.

192  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence In such a case, we might again be in the realm of what the Christian tradition has labeled a confessor, though not yet a martyr. In this ad bellum arena, we have been talking about just war reasoning leading to the decision not to fight. But what about the light of martyrdom in relation to the decision to fight? The decision to continue in the military, or to sign up in the midst of an ongoing or looming conflict, at least if it is to be a Christian decision, would seem to involve the belief that love for others requires fighting in order to defend their lives and well-​being, when under threat due to serious aggression. A poignant film example of this is Robert De Niro’s character in the 1986 movie The Mission (spoiler alert). He plays Mendoza, an eighteenth-​century Portuguese former mercenary and slave trader in South America who is eventually converted to Christian faith, performs a wrenching process of penance (culminating in a symbolic act of absolution by a native—​the kind of person he had previously pursued, subjugated, and sold), and becomes a Jesuit brother living and working in the jungle with other Jesuits and the native community to which they are ministering. Eventually, after political machinations between the Spanish and Portuguese rob the tribe of their land and imperil their safety, Mendoza is forced to ask what his responsibility is to the natives whom he once oppressed and now loves. His choice—​much to the consternation of the Jesuit father, Gabriel (played by Jeremy Irons)—​is to defend the natives with weapons. The same weapons he used for first-​order violence earlier in his life now become tools for purposeful second-​order violence. Has his sword, though still used as a sword, moved in the direction of the plowshare? In the course of the fight Brother Mendoza is killed, slaughtered with the rest of the Jesuits and most of the native community (including those who carried only the cross rather than the sword). In contrast to Father Gabriel, Brother Mendoza is killed with a gun in his hand after having taken the lives of multiple Portuguese soldiers. Does it make sense to interpret him as a martyr? If we set aside his Jesuit vows of obedience to his superior (which he broke) and regard him instead as an “ordinary” Christian (yes, a move that reflects the Protestant perspective of this book), it appears that many of the criteria of martyrdom are fulfilled. Mendoza’s reason for fighting, and thereby risking his own life, is a Christ-​given concern for those whom he had grown to see as his fellow human travelers on the journey of faith (criterion 1). This brings us back to the section of Aquinas’s commentary on the Sentences that Rahner invoked in his broadening of the category of martyrdom (see Chapter 1). In a discussion of the reasons why a person might merit an

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  193 “aureole” (crown of sanctity) in heaven, Aquinas admits that a death “for the common good,” though it might be laudable, would not merit the higher crown and designation of martyrdom. However, he adds that if such a death for the common good “is referred to Christ” (referatur ad Christum), then the person “will merit an aureole and will be a martyr.” He gives the example of someone “defend[ing] the republic from the assault of enemies who are bent on corrupting faith in Christ.”89 For Aquinas, actions for the common good that are “referred to Christ” must also protect the integrity of faith. But would it not (as with Romero) be possible for the defense of the common good to be referred to Christ even without specific reference to defending the place of Christianity in society? Couldn’t a Christian soldier see his lamentable fighting as a call from Christ to defend the possibility of children going to school (as in Afghanistan) or of citizens practicing their religion with freedom (as in Nigeria) or of staying on their land (as with Mendoza)? Brother Mendoza could have avoided death by withdrawing from the area as ordered to by the political powers-​that-​were, although that would have meant abandoning the other Jesuits as well as the people, which he refuses to do (criterion 2). His goal, as it appears in the film, is not to die in battle, but to protect the ones he loves, those who are threatened by colonialist aggression (criterion 3). In so doing, he displays self-​renunciation and thus provides a sort of parable for the hard way of the cross, one that we—​those viewing the film—​are invited to contemplate (criteria 5 and 6). If we are persuaded to regard a figure like Mendoza as martyr, it is because of why and with what spirit he decides to fight, because in that rationale and demeanor we see something of the way of Christ. It should be clear from the foregoing that abiding seriously by the principles of the ad bellum part of the just war ethic is never entirely unambiguous. Discernment is required, and a display of caution may be the best evidence that the principles are being followed. It is also clear that following the principles involves not only potential goods but also potential costs. It is possible that sincere diplomatic efforts in the name of “last resort” could be taken advantage of, with the result being the retrospective judgment of naive appeasement. It is of course also possible that such efforts head a destructive conflict off at the pass. It is only a cynical version of realism that rejects the possibility of the latter. Christian principled realism strives for that possibility but also is willing to bear the painful reality of the former. In the ad bellum realm, in short, just war principles—​though having normative force—​are not clear-​ cut in their application.

194  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence When we move to the principles involved on the in bello side of things, however, we enter what is, on the whole, a clearer realm. Soldiers in particular stand in a very different position in bello. As Walzer says, “We draw a line between the war itself, for which soldiers are not responsible, and the conduct of the war itself, for which they are responsible, at least within their own sphere of activity.”90

In Bello According to Ramsey, Christian ethics rightly “attribute[s]‌to ordinary men, and to their political leaders, a capacity to know more clearly and certainly the moral limits pertaining to the armed action a man or a nation is about to engage in, than they are likely to know enough to compare unerringly the over-​all justice of regimes and nations.” In our consideration of “the just conduct of war,” he says, our moral reasoning “is quite competent to deliver verdict upon a specific action that is proposed in warfare.”91 In short, while discerning whether a cause is just or force really is a last/​best resort is frequently hazy and susceptible to misjudgment, it is not nearly as difficult to discern whether civilians are being targeted or prisoners of war are being mistreated. While rare situations of genuine supreme emergency may possibly necessitate the lamentable, immoral, and temporary overriding of the principle of noncombatant immunity, the basic principle is quite clear. When it turns out to have been unclear, it is often because something was intentionally obscured in the process. For those in command, this central pillar of in bello morality requires commanding only conventional and discriminating means of warfare, even if that comes at greater cost of life to one’s own people and soldiers. Weapons of mass destruction or other means of unusual cruelty transform war into terrorism. Even Winston Churchill, for instance, acknowledged terror as the main purpose of Britain’s bombing of German cities in World War II.92 For the Christian citizens of a society, it means the almost unfathomably hard task of being willing to accept that greater cost rather than asking their leaders and soldiers to commit crimes against enemy civilians and bearing the guilt of the violation of the basic human dignity of children and other noncombatants simply because the latter are citizens of an aggressor state. Even beyond issues of targeting civilians, questions can be raised about modern military training techniques, especially reflexive firing techniques.

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  195 In view of studies indicating that in prior wars American soldiers had often chosen not to fire on their enemy, possibly due to deeply seated moral qualms about killing other human beings, after World War II training approaches were modified to bypass such “thinking.” Soldiers were conditioned to fire “reflexively” in combat situations. Training was simply tactical rather than moral in nature, with the result being the automatic pulling of the trigger. The efficiency and effectiveness of the technique are not in question; and the just war tradition’s belief in the importance of defeating unjust aggressors suggests that the technique is not beyond moral justification.93 But soldiers sometimes tell of situations where it prematurely bypasses a moral decision-​ making process, leading to an unintentional killing of a noncombatant, and often severe moral injury in solders.94 For front-​line soldiers, the issue of noncombatant immunity and using only discriminating means is often a matter of obeying or disobeying orders. The Christian just war tradition at this point is rather plain—​if clearly unjust orders are given, they must be refused, which was the counsel of Luther that we saw in Chapter 4.95 If there are only inchoate moral qualms, it may be justifiable to follow the orders if one is in possession of a reasonable trust in the moral compass held by those higher in the chain of command. But if the targeting of noncombatants is ordered and there is no serious belief in the supreme emergency of the good, true, and beautiful hanging in the balance, the order must be disobeyed.96 Therapist Edward Tick tells of an American soldier named Ben who, when commanded to shoot Vietnamese POWs, refused to comply and walked away, though other soldiers were willing to do the killing.97 Given the rules of military discipline, there may be a cost to such moral resolve,98 though there was not in Ben’s case. If a state is functioning according to the just war ethic, it is to be hoped that the cost will ultimately be borne by those who give the unjust orders. But if not, the cost of public shaming and possible imprisonment (confessor?) or execution (martyrdom?) for refusing orders may be the moral price of faithful discipleship. On this in bello side of the equation, it is worth contemplating another episode in recent film history (another spoiler alert). In Saving Private Ryan (1998), an American unit commanded by a Captain Miller (played by Tom Hanks) experiences one of many firefights in World War II in a mission in France after the invasion of Normandy in the summer of 1944. In this encounter, German troops kill one of the members of the unit. As the skirmish ends, the unit takes one of the German soldiers captive. Many of the Americans, filled with anger and grief at the loss of their brother, want to

196  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence shoot the German. In keeping with the rules of fighting justly, Captain Miller refuses to allow the execution and sets the prisoner free (since the demands of their mission prevented them from holding him captive), a stance that earns him disdain from some of his men. Showing that this is not just a fictional scenario, retired Lieutenant Colonel Pete Kilner quotes an unnamed American infantry commander in Iraq, who says that his men “hate” him because of how strictly he holds them to the rules of engagement.99 In the film, Miller’s men realize (thinking out of emotions of retribution) that they are leaving alive an enemy soldier who not only killed one of their comrades but also (thinking in more sheerly utilitarian terms) could harm them in the future. And indeed, in the culminating battle of the film, it turns out that the former prisoner had joined up with another German unit, and he ends up shooting and killing Captain Miller. It is, to be sure, a situation made for film, with the stylized irony of a right and compassionate deed coming back to kill the very person who committed it. More than likely, of course, a prisoner who returns to battle would take someone else’s life, not the very person who set him free. From the film, however, we can pose a number of questions. Though the movie gives us little sense of Miller’s religious commitment, what if we stipulated that his commitment to the rules of just fighting—​in which POWs are noncombatants—​was linked to his Christian commitment. It was, let us say, understood in Miller’s Christianized military sensibilities as a way of loving his enemy and caring for the vulnerable (which a POW is). In Aquinas’s terms, respecting noncombatants is something Miller “refers to Christ.” In such a version of the thought experiment, there was an easier path—​give in to the bloodlust of his angry men and just shoot the prisoner (no one would ever know or care, right?). This easier path could have preserved Miller’s life (although in a case like this it is of course likely that someone else would have shot the bullet that killed him). In not opting out of the harder call of the gospel in this military context, our Christianly reimagined figure of Miller reminds us that principle, character, and even the vulnerable enemy are worth a heightened risk of death, something that a Christian Miller might well have rooted in the assurance of salvation. Perhaps as a martyr of confession is tempted to nominally disown the name of Jesus in order to preserve her life; perhaps as a martyr of Christian action is tempted to turn away from the path of solidarity with the oppressed because it has gotten dangerous; perhaps like those other Christian martyr types, when someone like our fictional Captain Miller fights in a way that—​however strange it sounds—​expresses Christian

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  197 charity and justice even for the enemy, and thus does what is humanly difficult and dangerous, and carries on for Christian reasons, then we are in the arena of martyrdom. This witness in the face of temptation may perhaps remind us of Jesus’ temptations and his plea in the Garden for an easier way, temptations finally met with faithfulness, which reminds us that we can also meet our own temptations with faith. In the Miller example, we have someone who opts not to use excessive or vindictive violence in the course of his military work. On the one hand, this is a reminder that part of fighting according to Christian just war canons is the discernment of when one should not use violence. The just cause is not a blank check for all second-​order violence. The US infantry commander in Iraq quoted by Kilner restrains his men not just because he is committed to the principles for just fighting that are encapsulated in the rules of engagement, but also because he wants his men to avoid having to struggle with more profound moral injury in the future. Though they hate him now, in the heat of the moment, he states that he is confident that they will thank him later when they have returned to civilian life in pacis.100 On the other hand, there is the question of what—​if anything—​we should make of our Christianly reimagined Miller in martyrological terms if he had not had the encounter with the German soldier who ended up killing him, an encounter that offered the pointed opportunity for him to demonstrate faithfulness through the display of mercy. What if he had been like the vast majority of military casualties and was simply shot down—​one more number—​in the course of some battle? Perhaps, if we were aware of a distinctively Christian motivation leading him to sign up for the military, we could still contemplate the martyr label. Since he was shot down while shooting back, we are of course a long distance from the unarmed martyrs of the early church. Miller’s is a suffering of violence while simultaneously inflicting it, being a victim of death while also serving as its agent. The question then might be what Miller was fighting for at the moment of his death. If he was fighting for his specific mission, that may or may not play a persuasive role in a Christian martyr story. Fighting to liberate the people of a French town is one thing; fighting to hold a bridge may appear to be another (although it is unlikely that many soldiers would see themselves as fighting solely for the bridge). Fighting to protect his brothers-​in-​arms in the field or the more generalized mission of defending his family back home may be still another.101 If at the moment of death, however, Miller is, in a sense, fighting solely for his own survival, the picture gets blurrier. Many Christian just war thinkers

198  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence have denied that disciples of Jesus have the right of self-​defense. Ramsey explains Augustine’s take on the matter: “No disciple of Christ should love life or property, both of which are creaturely goods that may be lost against his will, more than he loves God, and his neighbor in God, who may not be so lost. No Christian should be thus ‘defiled by the killing of man.’ ”102 A secular or natural sense of justice might easily allow for self-​defense, but Christian love does not do so nearly as obviously. It is Christian love of others, and that alone, according to Augustine, that ought to inform the ethos of Christian participation in war. From Aquinas, Ramsey extracts the position that self-​defense in the course of battle is only legitimate for the Christian if that killing in self-​defense is referred “to the public good.” He invokes the principle of double effect: what is aimed at is not killing the enemy or preserving the self, but protecting the public good, with the former incidental to the latter.103 Aiming at the public good rather than self-​preservation may be a big ask for a soldier in the midst of battle, especially the frenzy of modern mechanized battle. Or is it? Nigel Biggar draws upon war memoirs to suggest that it may be difficult and complex, to be sure, but it is also possible.104 Regardless, it is something difficult ever to know of a fallen soldier, especially a fictional one like Captain Miller, as the intentions, motivations, and emotions in mind while fighting prior to death are mostly opaque to us as observers and are easy to romanticize after the fact. Honest war memoirs, such as those that Biggar analyzes, may be the closest approximation. But what this discussion suggests is that a Christian rationale for fighting in the first place (ad bellum) may also be relevant to the actual pulling of the trigger (in bello). Throughout this book we have seen that the situation of soldiers is similar in many ways to law enforcement officers.105 Indeed, just war is often portrayed as a way for one state (or the international community) to “police” an unjust aggressor or rogue state. And domestic policing historically involves canons of restraint that bear strong comparison to the ad bellum and in bello criteria. For a police officer, second-​order violence must have strong warrant or cause; it is intended to be a last resort; it is to be wielded in a way that protects innocent bystanders. It is difficult to say which paradigm, war or policing, is more basic, both theoretically and historically.106 While there is a parallel and analogy, there are also some important differences. War is declared by the political authority; in war enemy combatants are fair game for attack; and in war violence is the default tactic. Policing, on the other hand, is indeed under the authority of political leaders; but violence is only

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  199 sometimes legitimate, and it is the law enforcement officers in the field who usually have to discern in the fraught moment when, how much, and what type of violence is called for; second-​order violence is supposed to be the exception rather than the default tactic. In policing, given the presumption of innocence (at least in most Western systems), there is a strong preference for nonviolent or less violent ways of defusing hostility. Arrest that shows care for the suspect—​being only that, a suspect—​rather than attack is the default, because it is up to other authorities and institutions to determine whether a suspect is in fact guilty. While there are these key differences, both soldiering and policing (when informed by just war convictions) demand restraint in the use of second-​order violence. In late 2018, ProPublica published an article by Joe Sexton examining an instance in Weirton, West Virginia, where a white police officer was fired from his job for not shooting at a drunk and emotionally distressed black man, who had a gun that the police had been told was not loaded.107 According to the article, the officer in question, Stephen Mader, had been attempting to defuse the situation verbally, as he had surmised that the man, in his anguish, was attempting what is often called “suicide by cop.” With his gun raised and aimed, Mader was attempting to reason with the man. Then two other officers arrived at the scene and very quickly the situation escalated, with one of the newly arrived officers firing several shots at the man, one of them killing him. Mader, the officer who chose not to shoot, had previously served with the US Marines in Afghanistan. He explained his mindset as follows: “I didn’t want to shoot him. I don’t want to say this, because it’s really corny, but I was kind of sacrificing my well-​being for him. I’m not going to shoot this kid for my well-​being. I’m going to wait to see more from him.” Shortly after the incident, Mader was fired from the department (as a new officer, his status was still probationary) for “apparent difficulties in critical reasoning incidents.” The two other officers on the scene had accused him of “freezing” in the heat of the moment, with his alleged indecision putting their safety at greater risk. Mader argued that his restraint had been justified, that he hoped to defuse the situation without lethal force and had good reason to believe that was possible. The threat of violence was, in his view, sufficient for the time being, with actual second-​order violence not yet “necessary.” He was resisting the premature judgment of it being “necessary” to shoot. It might be fair to say that he was actually exercising quite nuanced “critical reason.” Interestingly, in subsequent hearings and a lawsuit, he never claimed that his fellow officers were unjustified in firing on the victim. In his own view, his

200  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence restraint was not the only option, but it was his choice, one ventured in hope of a less violent resolution. That choice led to his firing. This brief account hardly does justice to a complex and wrenching situation, especially for the family of the man who was shot; the full account by Sexton is worth reading. If Mader had Christian reasons for his restraint (and the article does not say), for there is a certain Christian logic to his language of sacrificing his own well-​being, we would be on reasonable grounds in thinking of his experience of job loss, public criticism, accusations of cowardice, and so forth as bringing him into the vicinity of the Christian “confessor” category. Further, we can easily imagine a scenario in which the officer showed patience and restraint, and the suspect’s gun turned out to be loaded. If such a turn of events had led to Mader’s tragic death, and it came out that there were clearly Christian reasons for his willingness to sacrifice his well-​being out of concern for his killer, we would then be in the neighborhood of Christian martyrdom (according to all six of our criteria). If this analysis is correct—​admittedly an armchair analysis at an existential and vocational distance from the hard choices involved—​of what it might look like to take the principles of just war thinking as having normative force, then we see that significant costs are involved. The costs are the flip side of the principles, and they are part of what distinguishes the principled realism of the Christian just war ethic from a cynical realism that merely co-​opts the language of just war for rhetorical effect. This vision of what it means to wage war and fight justly is a hard sell today—​perhaps it has always been. It may, however, make most sense to a theologically energized version of principled realism. A Christian imagination is able to make coherent sense of the value of the costs involved in fighting or enforcing the law righteously and even lovingly. Christians inhabit Act 5 of the Christian drama as governed by Christ’s sacrifice in Act 4 and in view of Act 6’s promised eschatological shalom. It may be that Christian action in war or law enforcement, Christian action in the sense of wielding the sword with Christ-​given charity and restraint, will be harder to do faithfully in a post-​Christian political magisterium, one less interested in the potential sacrifices involved in restraining violence.108 If a state is operating according to the rules only of cynical realism, it is harder for the individual disciple of Jesus to operate within it according to the principles of restraint.109 The Christian vision of reality would seem to point toward a more rigorous application of just war principles, since there it may be more clearly seen why love toward the weak and even love toward the enemy are worth it. This is notably Christian reasoning, a reasoning from the inside

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  201 of the biblical drama, a reasoning that is directed by faith, and only from that reasoning are we able to consider the possibility of Christian martyrdom. It is here that we must briefly address the difficult and dangerous question of whether the prospect of Christian martyrdom might apply to those involved in extreme actions taken in a time of authentic supreme emergency. It requires us first to consider carefully the relationship between peace and fighting in ordinary war. The “principled” aspect of principled realism as Christianly informed by Acts 4 and 6 of the biblical storyline involves resisting premature, merely rhetorical, necessity. However, its “realism” includes the recognition that ambiguity, frailty, and aggression are part of the world and affect even the best action of the Christian (that is, the enduring significance of Act 2). Accordingly, we have seen, martyrdom is at least a possibility when we see real faithfulness exhibited unto death when a Christian soldier does, in his or her sword-​bearing (in bello), things that in ordinary life (in pacis) would be wrong (e.g., killing). We can envision a Christianly reimagined Captain Miller accidentally killing a civilian in the course of a battle; if it were truly inadvertent, something that he had tried to avoid, then I think we would still be on good grounds in considering his witness martyrdom in the rest of our thought experiment. Given the theology of martyrdom developed in this book in relation to a Protestant understanding of sainthood and vocation, it would be improper to rule out the possibility due to an accident that he took reasonable care to avoid. If this is correct, why is it that we would be more likely to consider our reimagined Captain Miller or, say, Dietrich Bonhoeffer for the honor of martyrdom than a Christian pilot of the Royal Air Force whose plane was shot down after he dropped bombs on the city of Hamburg, an event that claimed the lives of around forty-​two thousand people (mainly civilians) in July 1943? Bonhoeffer realized that efforts at killing the leader of one’s country were in some sense wrong (even when necessary), and experienced angst even due to his minimal role in such plots. One difference might be that the effort to kill Hitler was tyrannicide, an act that had been sanctioned in various ways by some Christian thinkers in relation to just war principles. In other words, though it was an act that went beyond what was permissible in ordinary life (in pacis), it held to the principles of ordinary war (in bello). In sticking to the principles of the just war, such violent action remains morally tethered to the ideals of ordinary life, even while suspending the expectations of ordinary life.110

202  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence The firebombing of Hamburg, in contrast, took place under a situation of perceived supreme emergency. (We may, for the moment, assume that the category still truly applied, though as we have seen, Walzer persuasively contends that the situation of supreme emergency had actually passed before 1943.) Situations of emergency are not a good basis for policy regarding ordinary behavior. This means that the overriding of the rules of war when truly necessary should not be applauded or lead to a rewriting of those rules. At the same time, some of the same features of realism’s description of the normal moral world certainly still apply—​ambiguity, frailty, flaws, failure, lament. Because of that, the contemplation of martyrdom for the RAF pilot might seem to be appropriate for the same reasons as with Bonhoeffer or Miller. We can imagine the pilot going to war out of convictions related to Christian love, striving (until commanded otherwise) to avoid civilian areas in his bombing runs, experiencing remorse for his killing even of German soldiers. What, then, is the difference, if any? The main difference is that violations of the rules of war in times of supreme emergency go beyond ordinary war, which is already itself a situation beyond ordinary life. Ordinary just fighting remains (albeit tenuously) tethered to ordinary life in pacis by the in bello principles governing such fighting. Violations of the in bello canons—​for the brief moment when they may actually be necessary—​become untethered from the expectations and ideals of ordinary life, even if this ironically happens for the sake of the possibility of a future ordinary life. To honor that with the title of martyrdom could be misunderstood as giving sanction to the unsanctionable. Walzer’s endorsement of Britain’s refusal to publicly honor the architect of the nation’s terror bombings, General Arthur Harris, would seem to point in this direction;111 it is likely that Bonhoeffer would agree—​it is others who have labeled him a martyr, which was something that he does not appear to have applied to himself even as his death approached.112 If this approach is correct, then a posthumous absence of consideration as a martyr may be part of what the Christian soldier suffers in such a situation. It is a violence committed in part by the self against the self, as it participates in a nation’s tragically necessary violence not only against innocent civilians, but also against one’s own moral self in quest of the survival of its people. It may be that this tangle of violence removes the Christian participant (even though he or she perhaps could not have done otherwise) from the consideration as a martyr that I have argued is more appropriate for Christian soldiers than we sometimes realize.113 That very fact means we are right up against

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  203 the edge of what is permissible for the Christian qua Christian. In such a scenario, the Christian does what is impermissible because that is what, in that rare moment, responsibility for life in God’s world requires; its impermissibility means that all that can be hoped for is the forgiving grace of Christ. If there is martyrdom here, it is what Bonhoeffer called guilty martyrdom.114 It also means that it is possible that the Christian has given into false, merely rhetorical in bello necessity. If such a dilemma is experienced Christianly by the disciple of Jesus, it means that part of the pain in placing oneself outside of the possibility of martyrdom is the sense that it was “necessary,” actually the only option, which for a Christian means the paradoxical experience of being called to follow Jesus by doing what is wrong, what seems from one angle to contradict that following. We may be back in the neighborhood of Father Rodrigues from Endo’s Silence (see Chapter 5), who concludes that the only way for him to follow Jesus faithfully is to do what is theologically wrong and symbolically blaspheme the image of Jesus. What leads to his deepest suffering (as a confessor?) is that he must refuse martyrdom. In these examples—​mainly taken, tellingly, from historical fiction—​it is instructive that I have had to delve into what might have been the consciousness and intention of the protagonists. In the case of Saving Private Ryan, it was necessary to Christianize Captain Miller, though it is not unlikely that a schoolteacher turned army officer in 1940s America would have had Christian commitments of some kind. The use of our imagination has been even more necessary than it was when considering figures such as Marinus, Martin of Tours, Thomas More, Archbishop Romero, or even Neto. But it would be necessary in any case because of the role of storytelling in Christian martyr theology, as suggested by criterion 5. Because the work of soldiers or sword-​bearers of other types is work that any citizen is allowed to do regardless of faith, in the possibility of a Christian martyrdom in such work, much hinges on the reasons and intentions of the person. Linking intentions to faith requires a story, a story in which the disciple’s life is shown to be in narratival tune with the biblical story. Accordingly, a compelling martyr-​ making narrative is needed, one that convincingly shows the Christian shape of just war commitment in the case of a given figure. And it is that story—​the witness to Christ under military duress—​put on display that speaks an illuminating word of challenge into our journey on the path of discipleship.

204  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence

Soldiers, Society, and the Church We must once again remember that “soldiers” in this discussion are functioning as a synecdoche. Indeed, recognizing this point is important for accurately grasping the reality of the situation that a principled realism is committed to taking seriously. There are at least two senses in which talking of “soldiers” is to use one category as a convenient way of getting at the dynamics and tensions of a broader class and set of social relationships. One sense of synecdoche that we have already encountered repeatedly is soldiers as a particularly pointed category within the broader class of those who bear the “sword,” that is, those who threaten, direct, or deploy second-​order violence on behalf of the public good. Thus law enforcement and the whole criminal justice establishment (e.g., prosecutors, judges, corrections officers), the military and law enforcement industrial complex, and political and military command are also represented here in the category of “soldier,” in addition to those in the various branches of the military whom we more obviously think of as soldiers. Accordingly, we have occasionally given attention to other professions that participate in the public’s “sword.” The most prominent, with the strongest link to the just war ethic’s counsel of restraint in second-​order violence, is policing. What would it look like, we have asked, for martyr to be the right term to describe a Christian police officer who dies in the line of police duty? Similar thought experiments can be undertaken regarding jail and prison guards. One might consider the role of a Christian corrections officer in relation to the presumption of guilt (in view of a court’s conviction) of his or her wards, as well as in relation to the purpose of imprisonment. The terminology of “corrections” found in much of our society’s terminology suggests the possibility of change, repentance, and rehabilitation, even if in American practice the purpose usually seems mainly punitive.115 Given the de facto focus on punishment, the cultural presumption appears to be that prison guards have the right to use threats, force, and even verbal abuse to keep in line those they are accountable for. What would it look like—​and I’m sure there are many examples, including my father-​in-​law during his time working as a guard at a maximum security facility in Michigan—​for a Christian corrections officer to genuinely wield the version of the “sword” required by that specific job in an assertive way, but still to believe in the possibility of genuine repentance and change in at least some of his wards? Would it mean showing respect and even kindness to prisoners on the assumption

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  205 that Christ died for these people too, even though it remains true that most of them have committed serious crimes? Might it mean striving to make force and verbal threats a last resort in the guarding of prisoners who, despite their crimes and incarceration, still bear the image of God and possess its unshakable dignity? If this is the case, then we would have to recognize that it is possible that such an approach to the job could be taken advantage of (criterion 2). In addition to the likelihood of such an approach perhaps playing a role in the repentance and change of some prisoners, it could be taken for weakness by others. What if such an approach to corrections were taken by an officer who was then attacked and killed by a malicious or mentally ill inmate? If the narrative of that officer’s life gave testimony to a faith in Christ that called her to the difficult job of keeping society safe from violent criminals and the role of quietly acknowledging the humanity of, and showing the light of Christ to, those same inmates via restraint and compassion, and that led to untimely and violent death, would we be willing to bestow the title of martyr? If so, it is because in that witness we see not only courage but Christ-​given self-​ renunciation, as well as a call to ourselves to consider doing likewise in faithfulness to Jesus in our own walks of life. A second sense in which “soldiers” function as a synecdoche is as individual persons with particular occupations that represent an interlocking set of systems. They are a category that represents a whole social way of being. “Soldiers”—​whether army infantry, air force pilot, prison guard, federal prosecutor, or sheriff ’s deputy—​thus represent the society that created their roles, delegates its authority to them, and to varying degrees puts its trust in them. While this statement holds with much less force in authoritarian forms of government, it certainly applies strongly to forms of democracy. If soldiers are representative of society, then the great responsibility they bear, the triumph they experience when their job is done well, and the guilt assumed when they fail or misuse their office are not only their responsibility, triumph, or guilt. They belong also to the society that has invested in these soldiers and vested them with representative authority. On the one hand, this should caution us against demonizing the individuals who hold these offices, whether that is due to abuses committed by a few or because of the way they have come to be enacted in a particular social and historical setting. Yes, especially in the United States over the past decade, there have been far too many high-​profile incidents of police brutality and killings, especially of black men. These incidents merit strong description as shocking, tragic, and even evil. If I am outraged by these happenings, who should be

206  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the target of my protest and concern? Only the individual officers responsible? Should I direct my outrage to the community police officer assigned to my neighborhood simply because he shares the same occupation and is an easy outlet (i.e., a convenient synecdoche) for me? To my former neighbor who is a sheriff ’s deputy? At the main headquarters of my city’s police department? The latter option might make most sense, as would contacting the police chief, city manager, and mayor to express concern about ways to help police officers in my city avoid making such tragic misjudgments and taking innocent life. But by the time we are talking about city managers and mayors, we are close to the city commission and ultimately the voters who, whether they like it or not, stand behind the whole system. It is society that creates or allows the system and culture in which individual officers/​soldiers are more or less likely to wield their second-​order violence unjustly. There are some bad apples, to be sure. But the guilt for the death of Eric Garner or Philando Castile or George Floyd is not just that of the officers who took their lives, even though they may experience it most acutely and our society has focused its rage upon them. At its most profound level, the guilt belongs to the people who created and perpetuate that system. Weirton Police Department’s response to one officer’s decision to shoot and another’s choice not to, as well as similar decisions and cultures at other police departments across the United States, tells us something about the society that it represents. If we condemn a sword-​bearer for restraint at possible cost to his own well-​being and thereby justify and encourage instinctual resort to lethal force even when not really necessary, it tells us something not just about the police, but about ourselves. Similarly, in cases where great strides have been made in equity and restraint in policing, it is not merely a reflection upon the character and restraint of the individual members of that police force (though it is especially that), but also a government and community that has insisted that the principles of just policing (rooted in a just war ethic) be followed. In a similar vein, Walzer suggests that the guilt and responsibility for immoral actions ventured in a time of supreme emergency should not only be borne by the leaders and soldiers directly responsible for them, but also by the society on whose behalf they were undertaken.116 This also holds for “moral injury” related to ordinary sword-​bearing. As Sean Levine writes, veterans and citizens should “mutually own war trauma.”117 It is worth returning to the fact that for centuries, magisterial Christianity required penance for its soldiers after they had exercised their office of fighting, in case their attitudes or actions had been sinful, even

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  207 unintentionally. In the fourth century, Basil of Caesarea believed that returning soldiers who had killed in the course of their fighting should go to church but abstain from the Lord’s Supper for three years. John McGuckin states that Basil’s procedure, where soldiers are allowed into the church (and not excluded as simply “sinners”) but duty-​bound to abstain from the Supper, gives “at least one public sign . . . that the Gospel standard has no place for war, violence, and organized death.” This approach “makes the statement that a truly honorable termination of war, for a Christian, has to be an honorable repentance.”118 Despite the theological truth and powerful symbolism of that approach, it places the spiritual onus of the state’s second-​order violence squarely and solely on the individual soldier (or police officer, etc.).119 It is as if the violence is solely and properly theirs. In reality, however, soldiers are representatives of the state and society. While lament is always a proper attitude to bring into and out of second-​order violence, the second-​order violence itself—​if in accord with the just war ethic—​is carried out as part of the “calling” of those involved in the temporal authority. That is why Luther rejected the idea that soldiers or executioners should have to do penance for their work in their office.120 If something like penance is appropriate—​whether an expression of the lament that is part of just war spirituality; or because of ambiguity in the conflict; or because of misdeeds, whether intentional or unintentional, in the course of fighting—​it should be because of the shame felt by returning soldiers more than because of an actual guilt that they especially bear (if they have been fighting properly). Penance would be for the benefit of the soldiers, because it is specifically their souls that have been injured, not because the responsibility for war and its killing is being pinned entirely on them.121 More to the point, if penance or a similar ritual or state of mind is required because of actual guilt incurred by war (or policing), it is something that ought not to be borne solely by the “soldier.” Rather, the whole Christian community, as members of the society implicated in the second-​order violence of the “sword,” also bears responsibility and any impurity. One of the tragedies of war is that the moral pain and felt shame are rarely experienced by regular citizens (and perhaps also less acutely by the political and military leaders who command war, although that quite likely differs from person to person), but mainly by the soldiers who fight. At the same time, we should not sentimentalize police officers, soldiers, prosecutors, and so forth, just because they do bear a daunting responsibility, one that makes it sadly true both that they are involved in second-​order violence

208  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence with its physical, mental, and emotional baggage, and that there is a risk that a day could come when they do not return home to their spouses, children, and friends. The daunting nature of the responsibility should not mean a free pass for misuse of force. The denial of a free pass not only applies to the individual sword-​bearer, but even more so to society, including the Christian community, which may not give itself a free pass for a way of using second-​order violence that is wrong, a wrong in which “we the people” stand implicated. The connection between society and the sword is important to bear in mind because our preceding discussion has focused on individuals who bear the sword. It is individuals who may be named (or not) as Christian martyrs. I have offered judgments about what the just war ethic counsels about the proper way to bear the sword and to restrain its violence, as well as the shape of Christian witness in such a calling. My point is not only to offer—​from an armchair perspective guided by a theology of martyrdom—​suggestions about what such Christian witness could and should look like, but ultimately to prompt us to ask questions about what it means to be a person of Christian faith in the midst of an ambiguous world (Bonhoeffer’s “twilight”) where first-​and second-​order violence is ubiquitous, and we are all implicated in it in varying degrees and varying ways. What does it mean to allow the prospect of Christian martyrdom to serve as a lens and spotlight on the nature and expectations of the Christian life for those of us who are not soldiers but inhabit a society organized around the sword? What does martyrdom tell us about our responsibilities in Act 5 of the Christian theological drama?

The Theology of Sainthood (II) As this book draws to a close, we must return to a theme that recurs throughout, that of Christian sainthood. Crucial to our previous chapter was Lawrence Cunningham’s analysis of the Christian saint as a locus of power and a paradigmatic exemplar. Drawing upon Cunningham’s thesis, I argued that a Protestant approach to sainthood should focus on the latter element. All of the Christian faithful are simultaneously already, and yet also called to become, saints. If we lift up particular individuals, whether Martin Luther King Jr. or Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Corrie Ten Boom, as “saints,” it is because they illuminate what we ourselves are called to. The “power” they have is not so much of a supernatural variety, but derives from the fact that they displayed the miracle of faithfulness in extreme circumstances. We see in their

Violence and Christian Life in Light of Martyrdom  209 faithfulness in times of turmoil what we also are called to in times both ordinary and tumultuous. If in the case of faithfulness resulting in death, we are inclined to honor with the label of martyrdom a person and her story of navigating the extraordinary, it tells us that her way of life is also called for amid the ordinariness of life. If we can see such a death as a function of faithfulness, then whatever is proven in that death is incumbent upon us as the living. The point of martyr-​language, once again, is that it holds up the faithful Christian death as a mirror to the Christian life, which we are called to live faithfully. The faithfulness to which the Christian is called in life is shown to be possible because we see it actualized by our sisters and brothers in Christ in the extreme. Though it is all too easy to speak of it flippantly when in fact it is a heavy and even terrifying matter, martyrdom reminds us that not even death need be an impediment to fidelity to God. What the martyrs do is to display what we may suspect or fear is actually unreachable. In the arena of violence—​if we are willing to countenance as martyrs those of our brothers and sisters who have died in the course of involvement in second-​order violence—​martyrdom may remind us that a strikingly Christian faithfulness is possible even where we may be most surprised to find it. It reminds us that the leaven of enemy-​love can subsist even in the course of concerted violence against an enemy. The Christian martyr involved in sword-​bearing works in that very responsibility for second-​order violence to display a way, the way of Christ, that resists the spiraling of first-​and second-​order violence. How much more, then, is enemy-​love possible in the ordinary realms of Christian living? It is, of course, seldom the case that successful faithfulness in the extreme happens without diligent training in the mundane times and arenas of life.122 This is the case with martyrs of confession, and perhaps the reason why so many Reformation-​era martyrologies include the prayers, letters, and testaments of the martyrs—​it shows their training for the test that they knew they might face. The role of virtue-​formation and practice also applies to those Christians involved in second-​order violence who, struck down by the very violence that they resisted with their own violence, nevertheless shone a strange, pale light upon the way of the cross. If genuinely Christian, it would rarely seem to come from nowhere, but would, as in the case of Bonhoeffer, be the fruit of a disciplined, prayerful, and accountable life. The light cast by Christian martyrs in the course of the awesome responsibility of second-​order violence is thus a reminder to

210  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence the living Christian of the need for small acts of discipline, restraint, and humility in the face of the more mundane reality and temptations of violence that surround us more than we realize. The point here is not to suggest that all Christian soldiers, law enforcement officers, or even Good Samaritans who die in the line of duty should be called martyrs. Most of the time our motives are mixed—​we sign up for the army because we’re looking for a steady paycheck or funds for college; we pursue a career as a police officer because we’re interested in excitement as well as protecting people. Most of the time action in the course of duty is not purely self-​sacrificial, as it involves fear, self-​preservation, the culture of the job, vocational inertia, and even concern for one’s family. Most of these motivations are not obviously wrong, and are in fact quite understandable, but the specifically Christian argument may not flow strongly enough through them to call many who die in the vocation of the sword martyrs. At very least, it is for those who know their story and its relationship to the Christian story to name them as martyrs. But the possibility of martyrdom in sword-​bearing provides a vision of distinctive Christian discipleship in action, even action that employs violence. It is a spotlight, a mirror, a lens—​in short, an argument about faithfulness—​ that opens our eyes to the Christian challenge. The paradigmatic example of the “sword-​bearing martyr” beckons us to a deeper living of Christian discipleship as citizens who are represented and implicated when the state wields the sword, and as regular human beings who are tempted by various forms of force, coercion, and violence in our everyday existence. The paradigmatic example of the Christian martyr suggests to us what a more distinctive faith could look like in the face of the ambiguity of violence, a faith of self-​sacrificial love for the other, even when we are arrayed against him.

Epilogue The Logic and Absurdity of Violence

We are left with many questions, not least the question of the coherence of using violence against violence. Can fire put out fire? Does their common denominator obviate any meaningful distinction between first-​order and second-​order violence? Is it possible to find a logic to violence, a reality that we may simultaneously recognize as a theater of the absurd? Christian theology naturally associates violence with sin. In so doing, it suggests that there is a certain terrible “logic” to violence. In a world that rejects God, rebels against God’s intent for creation, and makes the self the center of reality, it makes sad sense that violence against others and creation itself follows in train. The Cain and Abel episode following on the heels of Adam and Eve’s archetypal falling away makes just this point, as do the continuing chapters of Genesis, with their downward spiral of sin into further forms of violence.1 There is a kind of logic even to aggressive first-​order violence—​as it is usually a more or less reasoned attempt to attain or gain what is possessed by another. While the example of something like robbery is perhaps paradigmatic, similar statements could be made about systemic forms of first-​order violence—​they attempt to gain or preserve what is held or what might be wanted by another. We may apply Augustine’s sober description of empires without justice being little more than “gangs of robbers” to the systems, structures, and institutions that underlie those empires.2 At the same time, the just war tradition insists, as we have seen, that there is also a discernible more productive logic to defensive/​responsive/​second-​order violence: there are times when fire can only be fought with fire, but restraints are necessary in order for such responsive violence to remain under control and within the bounds of reason and justice. The fact that even justified violence can spiral out of control, of course, reminds us that we must balance talk of the “logic” of violence with an acknowledgement of its absurdity.3 In the case of most discrete instances of violence, we can imagine things going otherwise, with other choices Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence. Matthew D. Lundberg, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197566596.003.0009

212  Christian Martyrdom and Christian Violence prevailing—​the potential robber choosing not to use force or its threat to gain something that they want; a tragic car crash resulting from negligence not happening; a police officer choosing to enter an ambiguous situation with humor and a warm smile, with her hand near her weapon instead of the weapon drawn; the architects of 9/​11 deciding that, despite long odds, political pressure would be a more advantageous approach to their political ends; the United States deciding that a less interventionist approach might be more effective than invading Iraq in heading off future terrorist attacks. Hindsight, of course, brings with it measures of clarity that are never available in the moment, usually with respect to what ought not to have been done, less so about what ought to have been done instead. But in all of these cases, we can at least imagine other choices that didn’t result in so much violence. When we factor in the sheer waste, in physical, psychological, financial, and cultural terms, that results even from second-​order violence, we may glimpse, then, a kind of absurdity even amid the logic. So much violence just doesn’t need to happen—​we can see other possibilities. Yet we have a hard time envisioning less violent responses. Or if we imagine them, we often have a hard time imagining them to be effective. Is it really possible to imagine an effective police force if officers don’t carry weapons or are trained to rarely raise them? Is it realistic to think that nonviolence could have stopped Hitler? At the same time, it takes little imagining to acknowledge how, say, the greater militarization of police forces today has the subtle effect of creating more fearful communities, which, given the dynamics of fear, naturally and gradually tend to become more violent communities.4 At the end of the day, there is a leap of faith, a spiritual and moral gamble, involved in the two main Christian ethical approaches to violence. The long leap of faith has often been held against the pacifist perspective, as it requires faith that sustained acts of love that refuse the temptation of physical force may perhaps, despite the odds, disarm those with weapons. And even if it does not, faithfulness is its own reward. The peace church traditions of Christianity have used the honor of martyrdom as a recognition of the cost of that leap of faith. On the other hand, adhering to the just war mindset demands faith that it is possible to restrain acts of violence, that it is possible for (second-​order) violence to be deployed in a way that does not inevitably spiral into deeper (first-​and second-​order) violence. The argument of this book is that considering martyrdom as a possible honor for those who pay the price of such faith is a call to let the shape of the cross and the hope of

Epilogue  213 resurrection seen in such love-​empowered restraint challenge our own living with and within violence. As the leaps of faith involved in these two responses to first-​order violence lean in such different directions, it can often be difficult for Christians of one persuasion to see any Christian logic in the other, much less the possibility of martyrdom. We need to be reminded to be open to the possibility of seeing what Rowan Williams calls the “grammar of obedience” even in those who we think are dead wrong about what to do about violence.5 When we see prayer, Word, sacrament, love of peace, genuine wrestling with the call of Christ, and maybe even something that looks like the witness of martyrdom in those sisters or brothers whose views on violence seem deeply misguided to us, is it not an indication that they may have something to say to us (and hopefully we to them)?

Notes Abbreviations ACM Acts of the Christian Martyrs. Edited and translated by Herbert Musurillo. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972. WMI War and Moral Injury: A Reader. Edited by Robert Emmet Meagher and Douglas A. Pryer. Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2018.

Introduction 1. “The Martyrdom of St. Polycarp,” in The Acts of the Christian Martyrs, ed. Herbert Musurillo, Oxford Early Christian Texts (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), chs. 9, 11 (italics removed). Hereafter the Musurillo collection is abbreviated as ACM. 2. “The Martyrdom of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas,” in ACM, ch. 18. 3. John Foxe, The Acts and Monuments of John Foxe, ed. Stephen Reed Cattley (London: Seeley and Burnside, 1841), 6:611–​12. 4. A paradigm example is the figure of Sanctus in “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in ACM, 69. See also “The Acts of Euplus,” in ACM, 311. 5. “The Martyrdom of Apollonius,” in ACM, 103. 6. Thieleman J. van Braght, The Bloody Theater or Martyrs’ Mirror of the Defenseless Christians, trans. Joseph F. Sohm, 3rd English ed. (Scottdale, PA: Mennonite Publishing House, 1951), 8. 7. Jon Sobrino, Archbishop Romero: Memories and Reflections, trans. Robert R. Barr (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1990), 201. 8. The sermon image is used, for example, in van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 360. 9. Samuel Wells, Improvisation: The Drama of Christian Ethics (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2004), 43; cf. 25. This view is also expressed by Robert Emmet Meagher when he contends that the just war tradition’s sanctioning of killing “sealed away in silence” the core of the Christian gospel, namely, “that love is more powerful than hate and that it is better to die than to kill. . . . In arming Christians for righteous battle, they disarmed the radical challenge and alternative to war embodied in the early Christian community, whose own ‘heroes’ gave their lives as willingly as any warriors, while refusing to take the lives of others.” Killing from the Inside Out: Moral Injury and Just War (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2014), 129–​30. 10. A study that presents many useful parallels with my approach is Rubén Rosario Rodríguez, Christian Martyrdom and Political Violence: A Comparative Theology with Judaism and Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). My argument

216 Notes differs from Rosario’s contention that Christian martyrdom is “inherently nonviolent” (123; cf. 218–​19), while acknowledging the significant element of truth in that point of view. 11. Accordingly, though the just war tradition in its broadest sense involves an array of historical, cultural, and legal factors, both ecclesiastical and secular in nature, my focus will primarily be theological. On the broad array of factors contributing to the medieval consolidation of the tradition, see James Turner Johnson, Just War Tradition and the Restraint of War: A Moral and Historical Inquiry (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), 121–​23.

Chapter 1 1. E.g., David Fergusson, Faith and Its Critics: A Conversation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 15. For Plato’s account of Socrates’s final speech before his execution, see Apology, in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, ed. Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns, Bollingen Series 71 (New York: Pantheon, 1961), 3–​26. 2. E.g., D. Dennis Hudson, “Self-​ Sacrifice as Truth in India,” in Sacrificing the Self: Perspectives on Martyrdom and Religion, ed. Margaret Cormack, AAR The Religions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 132. 3. See the illuminating discussions by Paul Middleton, Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed (New York: T&T Clark, 2011), ch. 6; and Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, esp. 124–​69. 4. John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany (New York: William Morrow, 1989), 6. 5. Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie, in Plays: 1937–​1955, ed. Mel Gussow and Kenneth Holdich (New York: Library of America, 2000), scene 4 (p. 423). 6. The terminology of “martyrdom” as death for a cause or ideal, though it emerges from the early church, refers to a phenomenon that obviously antedates the Christian church. Thus even though the term is not used, it is possible to talk of pre-​Christian “martyrs,” as with the Maccabean heroes and other figures in the ancient world. On the former, see W. H. C. Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A Study of a Conflict from the Maccabees to Donatus (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965), 31–​68. On the latter, see Herbert Musurillo, ed., The Acts of the Pagan Martyrs: Acta Alexandrinorum (Oxford: Clarendon, 1954). 7. Lysias, “On a Wound by Premeditation,” in Lysias, trans. W. R. M. Lamb, Loeb Classical Library 244 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1943), 101. 8. Demosthenes, De Corona, in Orations 18–​19, trans. C. A. Vince and J. H. Vince, Loeb Classical Library 155 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926), 106–​7. 9. Plato, The Republic, trans. Benjamin Jowett (New York: Vintage, 1991), 22. 10. This image was instructive for Karl Barth’s conception of the theological function of scripture: Church Dogmatics, ed. Geoffrey W. Bromiley and Thomas F. Torrance (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1975), 1.2:125. 11. On the book of Revelation reflecting a nuanced theology of martyrdom, even though the terminology of martyrdom was not yet fixed, see Paul Middleton,

Notes  217 Radical Martyrdom and Cosmic Conflict in Early Christianity (London: T&T Clark, 2006), 158–​71. 12. For a classic examination of early Christian persecution, see Frend, Martyrdom and Persecution. For a recent critical analysis of early Christian rhetoric of persecution, see Candida Moss, The Myth of Persecution: How Early Christians Invented a Story of Martyrdom (New York: HarperOne, 2013); and the persuasive response by Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, 84–​91. 13. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in ACM, chs. 21, 19. G. W. Bowersock argues that defining “martyr” as “one who dies for a cause” dates to the middle of the second century, with the account of Polycarp as the earliest extant text using this emerging technical sense of the term. Martyrdom and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 5–​17. The biblical texts discussed previously suggest that the more restricted definition is the endpoint of a trajectory whose beginnings are in the New Testament itself. 14. Lawrence S. Cunningham, The Meaning of Saints (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1980), 8–​16. 15. See the helpful chart in Middleton, Martyrdom: A Guide, 67. 16. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in ACM, ch. 6. 17. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” chs. 8, 14. 18. That this process began even during the age of persecution can be seen in the work of Clement of Alexandria. He suggests that “if the confession of God is martyrdom, each soul which has lived purely in the knowledge of God, which has obeyed the commandments, is a witness (martus) both by life and word, in whatever way it may be released from the body,—​shedding faith as blood along its whole life till its departure.” Stromata, trans. A. Cleveland Coxe, in Ante-​Nicene Fathers, vol. 2, ed. A. Cleveland Coxe and James Donaldson (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1950), bk. 4, ch. 4. On this mentality in later Egyptian monasticism, see Diarmaid MacCulloch, Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years (New York: Viking, 2010), 203–​6. 19. “Martyrs of Lyons,” in ACM, 69. 20. It is difficult to estimate current levels of persecution and numbers of those killed for their Christian identity. Two organizations that attempt to do so in their work of advocating for persecuted Christians are The Voice of the Martyrs (https://​www.persecution.com) and Open Doors (https://​www.opendoorsusa.org/​christian-​persecution). 21. For a preliminary attempt to develop this distinction between martyrs of confession and solidarity, see Matthew D. Lundberg, “The Blood of the Martyrs is the Seed of Life: Liberation Theology, Martyrdom, and the Prophetic Dimension of Theology,” Koinonia 14 (2004): 1–​28. 22. See Christian Martyrs of the 20th Century: Ten Statues on the West Front of Westminster Abbey (London: Scala, 2014). 23. And in the Chapel of Saints and Martyrs of our Time in Canterbury Cathedral, which is the seat of the primate of the Church of England, symbolic head of the worldwide Anglican Communion. 24. Sobrino, Archbishop Romero, 47. 25. Sobrino, Archbishop Romero, 48. 26. Though I regard this argument as mistaken, one of the general concerns behind it is an important one—​namely, the flippancy with which the term “martyr” is used in

218 Notes today’s news, literature, and popular culture, to the detriment of its theological and even religious meaning. 27. Karl Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom: A Plea for the Broadening of a Classical Concept,” in Martyrdom Today, ed. Johannes-​Baptist Metz, Edward Schillebeeckx, and Marcus Lefébure, Concilium 163 (New York: Seabury, 1983), 9–​11. 28. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 9 (italics added). 29. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 10. Rahner points out that dogmatic theology includes many parallels to his proposal, for example, the inclusion of what are often called “original sin” and “actual sin” under the single theological concept of “sin.” The application of the same term does not imply, Rahner writes, “any intention of denying a radical distinction between these two states of affairs” (10). 30. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 10. 31. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 10. 32. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 11. 33. Roman Komaryczko, “Auschwitz: Maximilian Kolbe of Poland,” in The Terrible Alternative: Christian Martyrdom in the Twentieth Century, ed. Andrew Chandler (London: Cassell, 1998), 46–​65. See also the insightful telling by Paul Mariani, “16670: Maximilian Kolbe,” in Martyrs: Contemporary Writers on Modern Lives of Faith, ed. Susan Bergman (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), 216–​33. 34. Komaryczko, “Auschwitz,” 51. 35. Komaryczko, “Auschwitz,” 49–​51. 36. Komaryczko, “Auschwitz,” 51. 37. Sobrino makes a similar analysis of odium fidei in relation to Latin American martyrs killed in the quest for justice out of Christian conviction. See Jesus the Liberator: A Historical-​Theological Reading of Jesus of Nazareth, trans. Paul Burns and Francis McDonagh (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1993), 266–​69. 38. On martyrdom, see Catechism of the Catholic Church (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 2473. On witness involving words and deeds, see Catechism, 2472. 39. Middleton, Radical Martyrdom, 70. Middleton’s original includes the “I am a Christian” line in Greek. The inherent political point about allegiance to Christ is also a theme that churns through the letters of the apostle Paul. See N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God 4 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), 1271–​319. 40. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 10. 41. Plácido Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero: Martyr of El Salvador, trans. John McFadden and Ruth Warner (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1981). The “frankly partisan” label is given by Jorge Lara-​Braud in the foreword to the English translation of the book (p. ix), an apt recognition of the book’s character as a martyrological biography written by a friend and follower, not so much a technical biography in the sense of the scholarly modern genre. 42. Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero, 44. 43. Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero, 44–​45. 44. Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero, 46. 45. Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero, 45. 46. Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero, 45.

Notes  219 47. Erdozaín, Archbishop Romero, 47. 48. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 10. 49. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 11. 50. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 11; Aquinas, Scriptum super Sententiis, bk. 4, dist. 49, q. 5., art. 3, quaest. 2, reply to obj. 11. In Chapter 7, we shall return to the specifics of Aquinas’s argument. 51. Cited in David K. Goodin, “Just-​War Theory and Eastern Orthodox Christianity: A Theological Perspective on the Doctrinal Legacy of Chrysostom and Constantine-​ Cyril,” Greek Orthodox Theological Review 49, nos. 3–​4 (2004): 251. For Goodin’s attempt to avoid the most straightforward reading of Constantine-​Cyril’s statement, see pp. 252, 261–​62. 52. In addition to religious motives, also a complex matrix of political and economic ambitions, as well as having failed and tragic conclusion. See Donald E. Queller and Thomas F. Madden, The Fourth Crusade: The Conquest of Constantinople, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997); Jonathan Phillips, The Fourth Crusade and the Sack of Constantinople (New York: Viking, 2004), 310–​20. 53. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 9, 11. 54. Delineating criteria for true martyrdom was an important concern amid the confessional disagreements of the Reformation. See Brad S. Gregory, Salvation at Stake: Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 315–​41. 55. I am indebted to Bill Manus for this formulation. 56. This criterion reflects a shift of mindset that can be detected in the early church, sometimes associated with Clement of Alexandria, toward the view that true martyrdom must not be sought out and that flight (though never nominal apostasy) was acceptable for the persecuted Christian. For an analysis of the earlier enthusiasm for martyrdom, as well as a defense of it as consonant with much of the New Testament, see Middleton, Radical Martyrdom.

Chapter 2 1. On the terminology, see Carter Lindberg, The European Reformations (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 12. 2. Another terminological option would be to talk of the churches of “Constantinian” Christianity. The currency of such language—​nearly always used pejoratively—​has been established in no small part by the work of thinkers such as John Howard Yoder and Stanley Hauerwas. For example: Yoder, The Priestly Kingdom: Social Ethics as Gospel (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1985), 135–​47; Yoder, Christian Attitudes to War, Peace, and Revolution, ed. Theodore J. Koontz and Andy Alexis-​Baker (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2009), 57–​74; Yoder, For the Nations: Essays Evangelical and Public (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997); Hauerwas, After Christendom? How the Church Is to Behave if Freedom, Justice, and a Christian Nation Are Bad Ideas (Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1991). Hauerwas (in discussion

220 Notes of Yoder) provides a concise definition of “Constantinianism” in With the Grain of the Universe: The Church’s Witness and Natural Theology (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2001), 221: “Put simply, Constantinianism is the attempt to make Christianity necessary, to make the church at home in the world, in a manner that witness is no longer required.” The account of Constantine and the political theology undergirding this terminology in Hauerwas and Yoder has recently been criticized at length by Peter J. Leithart, Defending Constantine: The Twilight of an Empire and the Dawn of Christendom (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2010), esp. 309–​23. 3. This phrase, frequently used today, only dates back to the 1930s, though it accurately describes the stance of Anabaptist churches that emerged in the Reformation. On the term, see Donald R. Durnbaugh, ed., On Earth Peace: Discussions on War/​Peace Issues between Friends, Mennonites, Brethren, and European Churches, 1935–​1975 (Elgin, IL: Brethren Press, 1978), 5. Cited in James Turner Johnson, The Quest for Peace: Three Moral Traditions in Western Cultural History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987), 244. 4. Interestingly, John A. Wood’s investigation of war in the Bible indicates Luke as the most consistent in its aversion to violence and its portrayal of Jesus embodying some of the pacifist-​leaning threads of the Old Testament. See Wood, Perspectives on War in the Bible (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998), 120–​31. In his analysis, it is Matthew (even given the Sermon on the Mount—​see pp. 131–​39) and Mark that continue some of the “holy war” threads of the Old Testament (pp. 66–​72). For a useful typology of forms of pacifism—​including several that appeal to natural law and several that appeal to divine revelation, see Andrew A. Fulford, Jesus and Pacifism: An Exegetical and Historical Investigation (Lincoln, NE: Davenant Trust, 2016), 16–​18. In his analysis of arguments for Christian pacifism that appeal to Jesus as divine revelation, in addition to the Sermon on the Mount Fulford includes Jesus’ refusal of Satan’s temptation to world domination; his “Take up the cross” command; his “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” statement; Jesus’ critique of Gentile rulers who “lord it over” their subjects; his saying that those who take up the sword will also die by it; and the paradigm of Jesus’ willingness to die as seen in the crucifixion (pp. 39–​81). 5. Richard B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament: Community, Cross, New Creation: A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), ch. 14. For a comprehensive critical analysis of Hays’s argument, see Nigel Biggar, In Defence of War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 34–​59. 6. Hays, Moral Vision, 320. 7. Hays, Moral Vision, 324. 8. Hays, Moral Vision, 329. 9. Hays, Moral Vision, 329–​30. 10. Hays, Moral Vision, 329–​32, quotation at 332. 11. Hays, Moral Vision, 337. For Hays’s broader account of the New Testament as a lens for reading the Old Testament, as guided by the writers of the Gospels, see Richard B. Hays, Reading Backwards: Figural Christology and the Fourfold Gospel Witness (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2014), ch. 6.

Notes  221 12. Hays, Moral Vision, 341. 13. Hays, Moral Vision, 341. Fulford, however, argues that the opposite explanation is needed. If the New Testament is actually not pacifist, then the question becomes how and why the early church quickly became more prominently inclined toward pacifism over the course of its first half century. For Fulford’s hypotheses about the factors that may have contributed, see Jesus and Pacifism, 85–​95. 14. For a helpful recent survey of the winds of scholarship on the early church and violence, see George Kalantzis, Caesar and the Lamb: Early Christian Attitudes on War and Military Service (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2012), 3–​6. Kalantzis himself believes that the literary evidence strongly supports the generalization that the early church was committed to nonviolence and unsupportive of military service as an occupation for Christians. He acknowledges, however, that the early church’s attitudes toward violence do not make for a neat and straightforward story (pp. 6–​9). Much of the recent debate thus hinges on the extent to which the openness of the Christian church, from the fourth century onward, to its members serving in the military is a dramatic change of attitudes or a natural shift in a new context. A key work positing a dramatic change is the classic by Roland H. Bainton, Christian Attitudes toward War and Peace: A Historical Survey and Critical Re-​Evaluation (New York: Abingdon, 1960). A similar story is told by Yoder, Christian Attitudes. Scholars who suggest more mixed attitudes toward violence in Christianity prior to Constantine are James Turner Johnson, Quest for Peace; Louis J. Swift, The Early Fathers on War and Military Service, Message of the Fathers of the Church 19 (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1983); John Helgeland, Robert J. Daly, and J. Patout Burns, Christians and the Military: The Early Experience (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985); Despina Iosif, Early Christian Attitudes to War, Violence and Military Service, Gorgias Studies in Classical and Late Antiquity 1 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2013). Among other factors, these works are divided by how they weigh the various reasons why the early church tended to be opposed to military service, especially the requirement of making oaths, the link between Roman military service and idolatry, and an aversion to killing. For a classic text that acknowledges all of these elements, see Adolf Harnack, Militia Christi: The Christian Religion and the Military in the First Three Centuries, trans. David McInnes Gracie (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981). 15. For a survey that in many ways set the terms for recent discussion, see Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 66–​84. 16. There is evidence that Tertullian’s emphases change somewhat over the course of his career. For such an account, see Helgeland, Daly, and Burns, Christians and the Military, 21–​25. At the same time, Tertullian shows a consistent point of view against Christian involvement in military service, such that I will work thematically rather than chronologically through his views. 17. Tertullian, De Idololatria, ed. Jan Hendrik Waszink, J. C. M. van Winden, and P. G. van der Nat, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1987), 19.2–​3 (translation amended). Tertullian’s famous contrast between the traditions of Athens and Jerusalem is in Prescription against the Heretics, ch. 7. 18. Helgeland, Daly, and Burns, Christians and the Military, 23. 19. See Johnson, Quest for Peace, 22–​23.

222 Notes 20. Tertullian, Apology, in Apologetical Works, trans. Rudolph Arbesmann, Emily Joseph Daly, and Edwin A. Quain, Fathers of the Church 10 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1950), ch. 32. 21. Tertullian, Apology, ch. 37. 22. Tertullian, De Corona, trans. S. Thelwall, in Ante-​Nicene Fathers, vol. 3, ed. A. Cleveland Coxe (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), ch. 11. 23. Tertullian, Apology, ch. 30. 24. His view resembles the view held by some Mennonite theologians on the state and its various forms of sword-​bearing. They may be ordained by God, but they are not suitable for Christians. For example, J. Robert Charles, “What Are We to Make of the State?,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 80 (July 2006): 391–​414. Recent Mennonite thinkers appear, on the whole, to be more open to Christians participating in the policing arm of the state than in its military functions. For an explanation (and critique) of this perspective, one that resists the view that the state and its sword are God-​ordained, see Andy Alexis-​Baker, “The Gospel or a Glock: Mennonites and the Police,” Conrad Grebel Review 25, no. 2 (Spring 2007): 23–​49. 25. “The Martyrdom of St. Marinus,” in ACM, 241. 26. “Martyrdom of St. Marinus,” 241, 243. 27. On the broader issue of Christian participation in the Roman army, see Johnson, Quest for Peace, 30–​47. 28. And Musurillo, not one to shy away from difficulties with historicity, regards it as reliable. See ACM, xxxvi. 29. As especially visible in Eusebius of Caesarea, Life of Constantine, trans. Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, Clarendon Ancient History (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999). According to Eusebius, God “put forward this man as a lesson in the pattern of godliness to the human race” (1.4); and it is God’s sovereign will that stands behind Constantine’s conquests (1.5). On the nuances of the matter, however, see Timothy David Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), 263–​71. 30. “Martyrdom of St. Marinus,” in ACM, 241. 31. Tertullian, De Corona, ch. 11. 32. Tertullian, De Corona, ch. 11. 33. Tertullian, De Corona, ch. 1 (translation amended, following Helgeland, Daly, and Burns, Christians and the Military, 26). 34. The work of John Helgeland has especially stressed the avoidance of idolatry as the main impetus for early Christian pacifism. See “Christians and the Roman Army from Marcus Aurelius to Constantine,” Principat 23, no. 1 (1979): 724–​834; Helgeland, Daly, and Burns, Christians and the Military. As we have seen, however, it is likely more than only the desire to avoid idolatry. For a telling of the story that emphasizes a principled nonviolence based on love of the enemy, see Jean-​Michel Hornus, It Is Not Lawful for Me to Fight: Early Christian Attitudes toward War, Violence, and the State, trans. Alan Kreider and Oliver Coburn (Scottdale, PA: Herald, 1980). Yoder cites idolatry, the necessity of taking oaths, and aversion to bloodshed (Christian Attitudes, 43–​46).

Notes  223 35. Johnson, Quest for Peace, 13–​16; James Turner Johnson, Ethics and the Use of Force: Just War in Historical Perspective, Justice, International Law and Global Security (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), 16. 36. See Johnson, Quest for Peace, 91–​109. This separatist pacifism must be distinguished from what Johnson calls a more “utopian” form of pacifism, which regarded the right kind of political arrangement as facilitating the banishment of war. 37. Conrad Grebel, “Letters to Thomas Müntzer,” in Spiritual and Anabaptist Writers, ed. George H. Williams and Angel M. Mergal, Library of Christian Classics (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1957), 80. 38. Dirk Philips, “The Church of God,” in Williams and Mergal, Spiritual and Anabaptist Writers, 250–​51. 39. Philips, “Church of God,” 251. 40. The church “must with the Lord’s Word judge and expel those in the congregation who are found wicked; and what is done over and above that is not Christian, nor evangelical, nor apostolic” (Philips, “The Church of God,” 253). 41. Menno Simons, The Complete Writings of Menno Simons, ed. John C. Wenger, trans. Leonard Verduin (Scottdale, PA: Herald, 1956), 555. 42. Simons, Complete Writings, 555; cf. 198. 43. For a careful analysis and critique of Yoder’s views, see Biggar, In Defence of War, 22–​33. 44. John Howard Yoder, The Politics of Jesus: Vicit Agnus Noster, rev. ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994). 45. Yoder, Politics of Jesus, 96–​97 (italics added). 46. Yoder, Politics of Jesus, 131. 47. Yoder, Politics of Jesus, 193–​210. 48. Stanley Hauerwas, The Peaceable Kingdom: A Primer in Christian Ethics (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983), 85. 49. Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 103–​6. 50. This aspect of Hauerwas’s project depends significantly on Yoder’s argument against the use of hypothetical scenarios, where violence seems to be the only option, as a tactic against pacifism. See Yoder, “What Would You Do If: An Exercise in Situation Ethics,” Journal of Religious Ethics 2, no. 2 (1974): 81–​105, which includes reflection on martyrdom as always an alternative for the Christian. 51. Hauerwas, Peaceable Kingdom, 125. 52. Again, Johnson, Quest for Peace, 162–​ 72, makes a persuasive case that early Anabaptism’s pacifism was largely a function of its separation from the world. 53. E.g., Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship, ed. Geffrey B. Kelly and John D. Godsey, trans. Barbara Green and Reinhard Krauss, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works 4 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003). Regarding the influence of French pacifist Jean Lasseure upon Bonhoeffer, see Eberhard Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Biography, ed. Victoria J. Barnett, rev. ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), 153–​54. 54. See, for example, James A. Colaiaco, Martin Luther King, Jr.: Apostle of Militant Nonviolence (New York: St. Martin’s, 1988).

224 Notes 55. Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King, Jr., ed. James M. Washington (New York: HarperCollins, 1986), 38. 56. King, Testament of Hope, 255. 57. Jacques Ellul, Violence: Reflections from a Christian Perspective, trans. Cecelia Gaul Kings (New York: Seabury, 1969), 133. For a more recent Reformed defense of pacifism, see David Crump, I Pledge Allegiance: A Believer’s Guide to Kingdom Citizenship in Twenty-​First-​Century America (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2018), ch. 9. 58. On the names and various editions of the book, see David L. Weaver-​Zercher, Martyrs Mirror: A Social History (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2016), 57–​61. 59. On the interrelationship of texts that culminated with Van Braght’s work, see Gregory, Salvation at Stake, especially 225–​49. For a brief discussion of the place of Martyrs’ Mirror in historic Mennonite piety, see Lutheran-​Mennonite International Study Commission, Healing Memories: Reconciling in Christ (Geneva: Lutheran World Federation, 2010), 105–​7. 60. On the longer legacy of the book, see John D. Roth, “The Complex Legacy of the Martyrs Mirror among Mennonites in North America,” Mennonite Quarterly Review 87 (July 2013): 277–​316. 61. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 8–​11. See Weaver-​Z ercher, Martyrs Mirror, 54–​56, 92–​96. There is an ironic analogy with arguments often made around the turn of the twentieth century for the importance of war in enabling the development and progress of civilization, due to the strength-​building adversity that it provided. See Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 417. 62. Gregory, Salvation at Stake, 243. 63. Though this is a common view, it confronts a number of difficulties that have surfaced already in this chapter and to which we will return in Chapter 5. 64. Lutheran-​Mennonite International Study Commission, Healing Memories, 22, 51. On the complexities of magisterial Protestants actually marshalling those laws against the Anabaptists of their day, see Steven W. Rowan, “Ulrich Zasius on the Death Penalty for Anabaptists,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 41, no. 3 (1979): 527–​40. 65. For Van Braght’s brief reflections on the name, some of its shortcomings as a label, as well as his reasoning for continuing to employ the term, see Martyrs’ Mirror, 16. A more contemporary example of this phenomenon is the 2012 name change of Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary in Elkhart, Indiana, to Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary, an acronym-​preserving shift that shows how today’s Anabaptist communities have come to identify with a label that was originally intended to insult and impute heresy. 66. For a helpful discussion of this point, see Stuart Murray, The Naked Anabaptist: The Bare Essentials of a Radical Faith (Scottdale, PA: Herald, 2010), 36–​37, 111. From a very different angle, see Johnson, Quest for Peace, 162–​70. 67. See Leithart, Defending Constantine, 69–​79.

Notes  225 68. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 744, 968, 1026. 69. Variations of this phrase recur throughout the work, including in its subtitle. E.g., Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 175, 535. 70. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 357. Cf. the comment made about the Zwinglian church in Zurich: “certainly a lamentable matter, that those who had but a short time before purified themselves in many respects from the leaven of popery . . . should nevertheless continue, in this respect [persecuting the Anabaptists], united with the papists” (Van Braght, 415). 71. Brad Gregory shows how the various parties of the Reformation story of martyrdom all assumed this Augustinian principle that it is primarily the cause and only secondarily the death that makes a martyr (Salvation at Stake, 320–​41). Augustine invokes this principle frequently. For example, in Sermon 327, Augustine observes that “many people endure tribulation; they have equivalent pains, but not equivalent causes. Many evils are endured by adulterers, many evils by sorcerers, many evils by robbers and murderers, many evils by all sorts of villains. . . . Heretics too suffer, and very often at their own hands; and they want to be called martyrs. But . . . it is not the punishment that makes the martyr but the cause.” Augustine, “Sermon 327,” in Sermons (306–​340A): On the Saints, ed. John E. Rotelle, trans. Edmund Hill, The Works of Saint Augustine, 3.9 (New York: New City Press, 1994), 173. At the beginning of his perceptive analysis of the rhetorical function of Augustine’s martyrdom principle, Adam Ployd gives a partial list of instances where Augustine invokes it. “Non poena sed causa: Augustine’s Anti-​ Donatist Rhetoric of Martyrdom,” Augustinian Studies 49, no. 1 (2018): 26 n. 5. 72. This effort to show the confessional fidelity of their martyrs is typical of most Reformation-​era martyrologists, of whatever confessional variety. 73. On the varied uses of Willems, see Weaver-​Zercher, Martyrs Mirror, 264–​91. 74. On the role of illustrations in Martyr’s Mirror, see Weaver-​Zercher, Martyrs Mirror, 96–​122, 271–​76 (on Willems). 75. As seen, for example, in the prominent role given to Willems in Lutheran-​Mennonite International Study Commission, Healing Memories, 105–​6. 76. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 741. 77. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 992 (italics added). It is notable that the nonviolent demeanor and expected love of the enemy that was encouraged and enacted by the Anabaptist communities was seen to be consistent with the expectation that God’s judgment would ultimately punish—​violently—​their persecutors. The quotation referenced in this note continues: “But this deed, it is to be feared, will at the coming of Christ, when it will be too late to repent, exceedingly smart their eyes.” 78. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 682. 79. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 556. 80. This tactic is common in the Christian martyrological tradition, especially during the Reformation when the question of the nature and identity of the true church was alive and conflicted. Though John Foxe’s work, for example, is popularly called Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, in reality it is a multivolume Acts and Monuments of the Christian Church, a full-​scale history of Christianity in which the martyrs play a prominent

226 Notes role as an argument for the truth and antiquity of Protestant Christianity. In the context of Lutheranism, Ludwig Rabus saw his collection of martyr stories to be a way of showing the continuity of the Lutheran church with true, ancient Christian teaching. On this aspect of Rabus’s work, see Robert Kolb, For All the Saints: Changing Perceptions of Martyrdom and Sainthood in the Lutheran Reformation (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1987), 52–​53. 81. In fact, one of the most significant ways in which Van Braght supplemented, extended, and developed the earlier work of Hans de Ries and other earlier martyrologists was in lengthening the historical perspective, which provides the context of the Anabaptist experience of martyrdom, seeing it as but the most recent episode in the story “of the true church of God, its origin, progress, and immovable stability through all times” (Martyrs’ Mirror, subtitle on 21). 82. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 219. 83. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 18. 84. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 17. 85. See Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 140–​41. 86. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 174. 87. Euan Cameron indicates that there is little evidence that the Waldensians were strongly opposed to infant baptism. The Reformation of the Heretics: The Waldenses of the Alps, 1480–​ 1580, Oxford Historical Monographs (Oxford: Clarendon, 1984), 206. 88. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 275–​89, quotation at 277. 89. Weaver-​ Zercher uses a typology developed by Donald Kraybill. See Weaver-​ Zercher, Martyrs Mirror, 209–​13. On its uses in “tradition-​minded” communities, see pp. 213–​36. For “assimilated” communities, see pp. 237–​64. 90. Under the leadership of John Roth, a process of updating Martyrs’ Mirror for the twenty-​first century is underway through the Bearing Witness Stories Project (see www.martyrstories.org). This initiative is part of the Global Anabaptist Profile, a project of the Institute for the Study of Global Anabaptism: www.goshen.edu/​isga. 91. E.g., William Robert Miller, Martin Luther King, Jr.: His Life, Martyrdom and Meaning for the World (New York: Weybright and Talley, 1968), 296–​97. Also see Weaver-​Zercher, Martyrs Mirror, ch. 12. 92. E.g., Miller, Martin Luther King, Jr., 281. 93. Miller, Martin Luther King, Jr., 297, 286–​87. 94. Miller, Martin Luther King, Jr., 301. 95. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 15. 96. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 741. 97. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 652. 98. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 360. 99. Hays contends that multiple “modes” of teaching in the New Testament take violence off the table for Christians, especially the mode of rules (as in the Sermon on the Mount) and mode of paradigm (especially the example of Jesus). See Moral Vision, 339–​40.

Notes  227 100. As with anything in theology, not without disagreement. For a survey of the various critiques of the “imitation of Christ” motif and a measured response, see Kevin Giles, “Imitatio Christi: A Typology of Responses,” St Mark’s Review, no. 103 (1980): 4–​10. 101. On the very purpose of the Gospels as fostering imitatio Christi, see David B. Capes, “Imitatio Christi and the Gospel Genre,” Bulletin for Biblical Research 13, no. 1 (2003): 1–​19. 102. Thomas à Kempis, The Imitation of Christ, trans. Ronald Knox and Michael Oakley (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1960). 103. Hays, Moral Vision, 329. 104. Hays, Moral Vision, 334. 105. Hays, Moral Vision, 334. 106. N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God 2 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 413–​28. 107. Hays, Moral Vision, 330. 108. Yoder, for another example, frames the pacifist ethic as an “ethic of imitation.” Politics of Jesus, 5; cf. 112–​31. 109. Though he is a liberation theologian working from the Reformed tradition who does not entirely distance himself from the just war tradition, Rubén Rosario Rodríguez basically includes nonviolence as a criterion of martyrdom (Christian Martyrdom, 196; cf. 121). 110. It is possible that tradition-​minded Anabaptists would be an exception to this supposition; see the reflections of Weaver-​Zercher, Martyrs Mirror, 234–​35.

Chapter 3 1. On the possibility of an early third-​century date, see J. den Boeft and Jan N. Bremmer, “Notiunculae Martyrologicae II,” Vigiliae Christianae 36, no. 4 (1982): 396–​97. 2. “The Martyrdom of Julius the Veteran,” in ACM, ch. 1. 3. “Julius the Veteran,” ch. 2. 4. “Julius the Veteran,” ch. 2 (italics removed). Part of Acts 4:24, a biblical locus classicus of Christian martyr theology, is embedded in Julius’s statement. 5. “Julius the Veteran,” ch. 4. 6. Johnson, Quest for Peace, 52. His broader analysis of this development emphasizes not a sharp change implying a falling away from the earlier church’s pacifist “purity,” but rather continuity in view of shifting contexts (see pp. 3–​10, 30–​47). 7. Wood, Perspectives on War, 13. 8. Wood, Perspectives on War, 77–​96. 9. Wood, Perspectives on War, 97–​103. 10. Wood, Perspectives on War, 104–​20. 11. Wood, Perspectives on War, 140. This reflects a rather modern understanding of “just war” in Wood’s effort to connect the dots between modern thinking and the Old Testament. The broader Christian just war tradition (until roughly the later

228 Notes seventeenth century), however, typically included wars that God commands as inherently just. See James Turner Johnson, Ideology, Reason, and the Limitation of War: Religious and Secular Concepts, 1200–​1740 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1975), passim, but summarized at 81. 12. Wood, Perspectives on War, 147–​49, quotation at 149. 13. On such difficulties, see Phyllis Trible, Texts of Terror: Literary-​Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives, Overtures to Biblical Theology 13 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984); Eric A. Seibert, The Violence of Scripture: Overcoming the Old Testament’s Troubling Legacy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012). 14. Plato, “Laws,” in Hamilton and Cairns, Collected Dialogues of Plato, I.628. Roland Bainton writes that in the classical world, the object of just war “was the vindication of justice and the restoration of peace; of necessity, therefore, peace had to be esteemed as an ideal, and recourse to war as a very last resort after mediation had failed. The war should be so conducted as not to preclude the restoration of an enduring peace. Hence, the conduct of war would have to be restrained by a code” (Christian Attitudes, 33). 15. Plato, Republic, 5.467. 16. Plato, Republic, 5.467. On the ancient world’s cognizance of the horrors of war, see Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 22–​26. 17. Plato, Republic, 5.469–​70. 18. Plato, Republic, 5.471. The conversation in this book of The Republic is followed by a debate about whether politics ought to organize itself on the basis of the ideal state, which is never fully actualized, or whether it should instead take into account the inevitable shortcomings that will be part of the life of the real state—​a question, as we shall see in Chapters 6 and 7, that resonates intriguingly with Christian debates about pacifism and the propriety of allowing for the possibility of justified violence. 19. Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 37. 20. This restriction of just war restraint to one side of a cultural divide remains with us today. See Johnson, Just War Tradition, 69–​84. 21. For a broader summary of Greco-​Roman reflections on war and justice, see Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 33–​42. 22. Cicero, De Re Publica, trans. Clinton Walker Keyes, Loeb Classical Library 213 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959), 3.23. One must keep in mind that “revenge” is used here in the sense of addressing a wrong committed against a particular party, not so much with the more emotional connotations of retaliating with vengeful enmity. Cicero also believes in the possibility of a war for “supremacy” and “glory,” although he still argues that this should be a defensive action and should involve “less bitterness” than wars against true enemies. De Officiis, trans. Walter Miller, Loeb Classical Library 30 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938), 1.12. 23. Cicero, De Officiis, 1.11. 24. Expressly in De Re Publica, 3.23. By implication in De Officiis, 1.11. 25. Cicero, De Officiis, 1.7. 26. Cicero, De Officiis, 1.11.

Notes  229 27. Cicero, De Officiis, 1.8. 28. Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 42. 29. David G. Hunter, “A Decade of Research on Early Christians and Military Service,” Religious Studies Review 18, no. 2 (April 1992): 93. Accordingly, it is necessary to temper characterizations, such as that of Meagher, that state that “nearly overnight” the Christian church’s commitment to peace was “forgotten” with “surprising suddenness” (Killing from the Inside Out, 70). Such a characterization portrays the early church as more unanimous than was the case and ignores key nuances in the arguments for pacifism that we find in early church theologians, nuances that I examined in the previous chapter. 30. Kalantzis, Caesar and the Lamb, 7. 31. Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 86. Cf. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 71. 32. Johnson, Quest for Peace, 41–​47. 33. See Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 88–​89. 34. Though in my opinion it is too much of a “fall” version of the story, see the account in Kalantzis, Caesar and the Lamb, 196–​99. Johnson, in contrast, sees this as a natural and understandably gradual process of Christianity figuring out how to live in the world, with a position on appropriate military service emerging parallel to a settled position on marriage. Johnson, Ethics, 16. 35. See the relevant edicts of Theodosius II, in J. Stevenson and W. H. C. Frend, ed., Creeds, Councils, and Controversies: Documents Illustrating the History of the Church, AD 337–​461, rev. ed. (London: SPCK, 1989), 154. 36. Paul Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience: How Shall Modern War Be Conducted Justly? (Durham NC: Duke University Press, 1961), 15. For a careful analysis of the paradoxes in Augustine’s unsystematic account of war, see William R. Stevenson Jr., Christian Love and Just War: Moral Paradox and Political Life in St. Augustine and His Modern Interpreters (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1987). 37. Johnson, Ethics, 16. 38. See the collection in Maureen A. Tilley, ed., Donatist Martyr Stories: The Church in Conflict in Roman North Africa, Translated Texts for Historians 24 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1996). 39. At least the movement’s more radical strand. See W. H. C. Frend, The Donatist Church: A Movement of Protest in Roman North Africa, rev. ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 171–​77. For an account of the complexities of the so-​called Circumcelliones, a radical strand within the Donatist church, see Bruno Pottier, “Circumcelliones, Rural Society and Communal Violence in Late Antique North Africa,” in The Donatist Schism: Controversy and Contexts, ed. Richard Miles (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2018), 142–​65. 40. On the gradual nature of his move to this position, see Rodríguez, Christian Martyrdom, 199–​201. 41. Augustine, “The Correction of the Donatists,” trans. J. R. King, in Nicene and Post-​ Nicene Fathers, vol. 4, First Series, ed. Philip Schaff (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), 1.1. 42. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 4.15.

230 Notes 43. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 4.18; cf. 7.27. 44. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 2.8, 11; cf. 3.14. 45. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 2.11. 46. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 3.13. 47. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 3.14. 48. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 8.32. 49. We must recognize that a cleaner just war/​holy war distinction can only be glimpsed in the Middle Ages, was problematized by the Crusades and wars of religion, and then became possible in a new way in the early modern period and further in the increasingly secularized Enlightenment West, with its separation of church/​religion and state/​politics. On the parallelism found between just war and religious war in medieval and early modern thinkers, see LeRoy Walters, “The Just War and the Crusade: Antitheses or Analogies?,” The Monist 57, no. 4 (October 1973): 584–​94. Also see the related analysis of Johnson, Just War Tradition, 231–​37. 50. Augustine, Answer to Faustus, a Manichean, ed. Boniface Ramsey, trans. Roland J. Teske, The Works of Saint Augustine, 1.20 (New York: New City Press, 2007), 22.74; also see 22.78. 51. Augustine, Answer to Faustus, 22.76. 52. Augustine, Answer to Faustus, 22.74. 53. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 6.21. 54. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 6.22. He also uses the analogy of shepherd and sheep, where it is precisely the care of the shepherd that occasionally requires him to use “fear or even the pain of the whip” when they resist being brought back into the fold (6.23). 55. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 5.19–​20, 6.24. Cf. here Leithart, Defending Constantine. 56. Augustine, “Correction of the Donatists,” 1.1. 57. For some of Augustine’s key descriptions and comparisons of this double metaphor, see Augustine, The City of God, ed. Boniface Ramsey, trans. William Babcock, The Works of Saint Augustine, 1.7 (New York: New City, 2013), 14.28; as well as books 15, 18, and 19, passim. 58. Augustine, City of God, 14.28. 59. See Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 23, 26. Jean Bethke Elshtain writes that “a specific strength embedded in [the just war tradition’s] ontology of peace is the vantage point it affords with reference to social arrangements, one from which its adherents frequently assess what the world calls peace and finds it wanting.” Augustine’s critique of Rome is Exhibit A for her argument. Elshtain, “Reflections on War and Political Discourse: Realism, Just War, and Feminism in a Nuclear Age,” in Just War Theory, ed. Jean Bethke Elshtain, Readings in Social and Political Theory (New York: New York University Press, 1992), 265. 60. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 30. 61. Augustine, City of God, 19.7. 62. Augustine, City of God, 19.7. 63. Augustine, Answer to Faustus, 22.75.

Notes  231 64. Augustine, Answer to Faustus, 22.75. 65. Augustine, City of God, 19.12. This claim is rooted in his privative conception of evil, according to which evil has no independent reality but exists only as a disfigurement of the good. The good is fundamental reality; evil exists only as a misdirection or perversion of that fundamental reality. In this very context, Augustine argues that “even what is perverted must of necessity be at peace in or from or with some part of the order of things in which it exists or of which it consists” (Augustine, 19.12; cf. 19.13). Augustine borrowed this approach from the Neoplatonists in order to address one of his central disappointments with Manichaeism, namely, its allowing of an independent (and thus potentially unconquerable) reality to evil. On this theme in Augustine’s early thought, see Eugene TeSelle, Augustine the Theologian (London: Herder and Herder, 1970), 144–​45. 66. Augustine, City of God, 19.12. 67. Johnson states that Augustine provides “an entirely new condition” for just war considerations—​right intention, which negatively means avoiding hatred in fighting and positively means fighting only to achieve a just peace (Quest for Peace, 61). Rather than “entirely new,” however, it would be better to say that Augustine Christianizes the negative form and appropriates the positive form from the classical world, as we saw in Plato and Cicero. 68. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 28–​29, 31, quotation at 29. Cf. Bainton, Christian Attitudes, 98–​99. 69. Johnson uses this language throughout his writings. E.g., Ideology, 185–​95; Just War Tradition, 97–​99. 70. Reflecting the attitudes demanded by just war thinking, Martin Luther tells rulers: Take my advice. Make the broadest possible distinction between what you want to do and what you ought to do, between desire and necessity, between lust for war and willingness to fight. . . . Wait until the situation compels you to fight when you have no desire to do so. . . . Look at the real soldiers, those who have played the game of war. They are not quick to draw their sword, they are not contentious; they have no desire to fight. But when someone forces them to fight, watch out! And he states that soldiers “should inform their consciences that they do not do this from choice, desire, or ill-​will, but that this is God’s work and that it is their duty to their prince and their God.” Luther, “Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved,” in Luther’s Works, ed. Robert C. Schultz, vol. 46 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967), 118–​19, 129. The historic Eastern Orthodox viewpoint also falls broadly into the just war category (although with some discomfort with the language of “just” and “justified”), especially as this tradition of Christianity was geographically centered in areas that involved long conflict between Christian states and Islamic forces. See Goodin, “Just-​ War Theory,” 249–​67. 71. See Johnson, Just War Tradition, ch. 5. 72. Johnson, Just War Tradition, 131–​50. 73. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics, 1948), 2.2, q. 40, art. 1.

232 Notes 74. Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, 2.2, q. 40, art. 1, reply to objs. 1 and 2. 75. Johnson reminds us that the three main ad bellum considerations—​those analyzed by Aquinas—​are primary; the other considerations, such as last resort, are of a secondary and more prudential nature. See Morality and Contemporary Warfare (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 36–​38; Ethics, 19. 76. For example, in his quite serious discussion of whether ambushes (which involve deception) are permissible in war. See Aquinas, 2.2, q. 40, art. 3. For a rather labyrinthine examination of how the principle of noncombatant immunity is rooted in Augustine and Aquinas, see Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 34–​59. 77. LeRoy Walters offers a more fine-​tuned analysis of just war reasoning in terms of four questions: the pacifist question (whether war can ever be justified), the authority question, the cause question, and the conduct question. “The Simple Structure of the ‘Just-​War’ Theory,” in Peace, Politics, and the People of God, ed. Paul Peachey (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 135–​48. Walters explores these questions in much greater detail in terms of whether, who, when, and how in “Five Classic Just-​ War Theories: A Study in the Thought of Thomas Aquinas, Vitoria, Suárez, Gentili, and Grotius” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1971), microfilm. 78. Michael Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars: A Moral Argument with Historical Illustrations, 4th ed. (New York: Basic Books, 2006), 21. This is an issue that he analyzes throughout the book, his contention being that ad bellum considerations have a primarily consequentialist character (part 2 of the book), while in bello considerations are mainly deontological (part 3). The dissonance between the two creates the main “dilemmas” of war (parts 4 and 5). We shall return to this tension in Chapter 7. 79. Some recent thinkers have suggested adding a third category—​jus post bellum, just actions in the way a war is ended and how the postwar situation is set up. For a pivotal philosophical discussion, see Gary J. Bass, “Jus Post Bellum,” Philosophy & Public Affairs 32, no. 4 (Fall 2004): 384–​412. For a more theological approach, see Tobias L. Winright and Mark Allman, “Jus Post Bellum: Extending the Just War Theory,” in Faith in Public Life, ed. William J. Collinge, College Theology Society 53 (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2007), 241–​64. 80. Augsburg Confession, in Creeds and Confessions of Faith in the Christian Tradition, ed. Jaroslav Pelikan and Valerie Hotchkiss, vol. 2 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003), art. 16, Latin edition. 81. Westminster Confession of Faith, in Pelikan and Hotchkiss, Creeds and Confessions, 23.2. 82. Second Helvetic Confession, in Pelikan and Hotchkiss, Creeds and Confessions, 30.4. 83. Second Helvetic Confession, 30.5. 84. Second Helvetic Confession, 22.2. 85. Second Helvetic Confession, 30.4. 86. See Harry O. Maier, “The War of the Lamb,” Christian Reflection: A Series in Faith and Ethics 12 (2004): 18–​26; and Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, 266–​67. 87. This is an important theological point in response to the claim made by Robert Holmes that philosophical just war reasoning never justifies the resort to killing and violence as a legitimate response to aggression, but rather assumes it without

Notes  233 reason. See Holmes, On War and Morality, Studies in Moral, Political, and Legal Philosophy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), 181–​82. At least in a Christian context (theological or more broadly historical), the Romans 13 passage talking about God’s ordaining of the state’s sword is a significant warrant. 88. This is another way of putting the question that Peter Leithart asks about Constantine and how else he should have been expected to relate his new faith to the structures of the Roman Empire (see Defending Constantine). 89. Biggar, In Defence of War, 42–​45, quotation at 43. On the Anabaptist history behind this distinction, see Johnson, Quest for Peace, 171; on the moral tension of this stance, see Johnson, Can Modern War Be Just? (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1984), 154–​55. 90. In Niebuhr’s distinction between these two kinds of pacifism, we see a twentieth-​ century version of what James Turner Johnson traces as two longer pacifist threads, a sectarian version and a utopian version, dating back to the Middle Ages. See Quest for Peace, esp. chs. 2–​4. 91. In Reinhold Niebuhr, Christianity and Power Politics (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1946), 1–​32. For the broader theoretical framework that informs this approach to the questions of violence and war, see Niebuhr, The Nature and Destiny of Man: A Christian Interpretation (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1943); Niebuhr, An Interpretation of Christian Ethics (New York: Seabury, 1979). 92. Niebuhr, Christianity and Power Politics, 9. For a response to Augustinian/​ Niebuhrian interpretations of the Sermon on the Mount, see Hays, Moral Vision, 320–​24. 93. Biggar, In Defence of War, 168. 94. Paul Ramsey, The Just War: Force and Political Responsibility (New York: Scribner, 1968), 142–​45, quotation at 142–​43. Elsewhere in the book Ramsey borrows Max Kohnstam’s description of this as love mediated “through structures” (p. 498). 95. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, xvii. 96. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, xix; cf. xx, 37, 42, 59. In Ramsey’s telling, the relationship is quite indirect, related to the development of “double effect” from consideration of killing the enemy in self-​defense to eventually killing civilians (again, see pp. 34–​59). 97. Johnson, Ethics, 23. 98. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 45–​49. Ramsey’s contention is supported somewhat by Johnson’s own tracing of early modern thinkers moving toward natural law reasoning rather than specifically Christian reasoning in their accounts of the just war. See, e.g., Just War Tradition, 172–​79. 99. Biggar, In Defence of War, 61; cf. 69–​75, 154–​60. 100. Biggar, In Defence of War, 96. 101. E.g., see Biggar, In Defence of War, 103–​6. 102. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 72–​75. 103. Hays, Moral Vision, 332. 104. John Howard Yoder, When War Is Unjust: Being Honest in Just-​War Thinking, 2nd ed. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1996), 5–​7.

234 Notes 105. Yoder, When War Is Unjust, 50–​70. 106. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 108; cf. 130. 107. Yoder, When War Is Unjust, 72–​75. Also see Richard J. Mouw, “Christianity and Pacifism,” Faith and Philosophy 2, no. 2 (1985): 105–​11. 108. There is, of course, much greater complexity related to “sovereign authority” in situations of tyranny or revolution. For a discussion of Archbishop Romero’s own wrestling with this issue, using Catholic just war reasoning, see Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, 30–​31, 209–​10, 216–​18. 109. The revolutionary violence of the time came in multiple flavors—​that directed against governmental, military, and political officials responsible for creating and enforcing repressive policies, as well as more indiscriminate and terrorizing forms. 110. It was in the priestly vocation that pacifism mainly came to reside in Catholic magisterial Christianity. See Johnson, Quest for Peace, 55–​56. 111. For a carefully argued case that Bonhoeffer ought to be considered a martyr, see Craig J. Slane, Bonhoeffer as Martyr: Social Responsibility and Modern Christian Commitment (Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos, 2004).

Chapter 4 1. Colin Morris, “Martyrs on the Field of Battle before and during the First Crusade,” in Martyrs and Martyrologies: Papers Read at the 1992 Summer Meeting and the 1993 Winter Meeting of the Ecclesiastical History Society, ed. Diana Wood (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), 93–​95, 99–​103. 2. Quoted in Kalantzis, Caesar and the Lamb, 199. 3. Morris, “Martyrs on the Field of Battle,” 98. 4. Morris, “Martyrs on the Field of Battle,” 95–​96. Morris is clear that the concept of martyrdom is only part of the picture. It was intertwined with the burgeoning concept of indulgences granted to stand in for penance. 5. Morris, “Martyrs on the Field of Battle,” 100–​101. 6. Morris, “Martyrs on the Field of Battle,” 101. 7. Bernard of Clairvaux, In Praise of the New Knighthood: A Treatise on the Knights Templar and the Holy Places of Jerusalem, trans. M. Conrad Greenia, Cistercian Fathers 19B (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2000), 34. 8. Bernard of Clairvaux, Praise of New Knighthood, 37–​39. 9. Morris, “Martyrs on the Field of Battle,” 104, 103. 10. On this mixture, see Johnson, Just War Tradition, 156–​61. 11. Rahner, “Dimensions of Martyrdom,” 10. 12. Harry S. Stout, Upon the Altar of the Nation: A Moral History of the Civil War (New York: Penguin, 2007). On how significant just war theorizing still took place during this conflict via military manuals mindful of emerging international law, see Johnson, Just War Tradition, 281–​322.

Notes  235 13. Philip Jenkins, The Great and Holy War: How World War I Became a Religious Crusade (New York: HarperCollins, 2014). For a brief critique of the evidence adduced for World War I soldiers framing their possible deaths as martyrdom, see Joseph Loconte, review of The Great and Holy War, by Philip Jenkins, Books & Culture 20, no. 3 (June 2014): 5. 14. Johnson, Quest for Peace, 211–​12. 15. “The Acts of Marcellus,” recension M, in ACM, 251. 16. “The Acts of Marcellus,” 253. 17. “The Acts of Marcellus,” 255. 18. “The Acts of Maximilian,” in ACM, 245. 19. “The Acts of Maximilian,” 247. 20. For an analysis of the Maximilian text that emphasizes disdain for shedding blood, against the backdrop of early North African Christianity, especially the role of Tertullian and Cyprian and the cult of martyrs, see Peter Brock, “Why Did St Maximilian Refuse to Serve in the Roman Army?,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 45, no. 2 (April 1994): 195–​209. 21. On the thoroughly religious nature of Roman military service, especially for officers, see Helgeland, Daly, and Burns, Christians and the Military, 48–​55. As Helgeland writes, based on examination of the accounts of patristic soldier martyrs, “Soldiers got in trouble with the army because of religious policy, never on the basis of a refusal to kill or to serve in combat” (66). 22. See, for example, the careful examination by Clare Stancliffe, St. Martin and His Hagiographer: History and Miracle in Sulpicius Severus, Oxford Historical Monographs (Oxford: Clarendon, 1983). 23. Sulpicius Severus, Life of Saint Martin, trans. Alexander Roberts, in Nicene and Post-​ Nicene Fathers, vol. 11, Second Series, ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), ch. 1. The motives behind Severus’s life of Martin go beyond those that he states (Stancliffe, St. Martin and His Hagiographer, 341). 24. Unless one takes an expansive view of his “younger” years, the chronology is unlikely, as twenty-​three years separate the end of Constantine’s reign and the beginning of that of Julian. 25. Severus, Life of Saint Martin, ch. 2. 26. Severus, Life of Saint Martin, ch. 2. 27. Severus, Life of Saint Martin, ch. 3. 28. Severus, Life of Saint Martin, ch. 4. 29. Richard Kieckhefer surmises that this episode “recalled the exchanges that martyrs had had with the Roman authorities. In effect, Sulpicius was assimilating Martin into the category of martyrs.” Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ: Sainthood in the Christian Tradition,” in Sainthood: Its Manifestation in World Religions, ed. Richard Kieckhefer and George D. Bond (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 32. Also see Stancliffe, St. Martin and His Hagiographer, 141–​48. 30. This became the view of the Catholic Church. Thomas Aquinas, for example, includes in his discussion of the conditions for just violence an explanation of why clergy are not allowed to fight. Summa Theologiae, 2.2, q. 40, art. 2.

236 Notes 31. Severus, Life of Saint Martin, ch. 20. 32. As such, Meagher’s description of Martin as a “pacifist” misses much of the story (Killing from the Inside Out, 84). 33. Bruno Chenu et al., Book of Christian Martyrs (New York: Crossroad, 1990), 106. 34. J. B. O’Connell, ed., The Roman Martyrology, 4th ed. (Westminster, MD: Newman, 1962), 181. 35. Jacques Douillet, What Is a Saint?, trans. Donald Attwater, Twentieth Century Encyclopedia of Catholicism 46 (New York: Hawthorn, 1958), 40. 36. Douillet, What Is a Saint, 41. 37. Douillet, What Is a Saint, 42. 38. Edward and Lorna Mornin, Saints: A Visual Guide (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 226. 39. For a recent though controversial defense of the crusading mentality, especially its political dimensions, see Rodney Stark, God’s Battalions: The Case for the Crusades (New York: HarperOne, 2010). 40. On this development in the English context, including among the laity, see Danna Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making: Political Martyrdom in Late Medieval England (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 10–​18. The term “white martyrdom” is sometimes used to describe this phenomenon. 41. Bernard of Clairvaux, “Sermon on the Feasts of Saint Stephen, Saint John, and the Holy Innocents,” in Sermons for Advent and the Christmas Season, ed. John Leinenweber, trans. Irene Edmonds, Wendy Mary Beckett, and Conrad Greenia, Cistercian Fathers 51 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2007), 129–​30. 42. Bernard of Clairvaux, “Sermon 40, Concerning Seven Steps of Confession,” in Monastic Sermons, trans. Daniel Griggs, Cistercian Fathers 68 (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2016), 208. 43. Bernard of Clairvaux, “Sermon 40,” 211. 44. See Tom Corfe, Archbishop Thomas and King Henry II, Cambridge Introduction to the History of Mankind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975). 45. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 13. 46. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 2. 47. The phrase made most famous by the play by T. S. Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral (London: Faber and Faber, 1938). For an insightful theological reflection on martyrdom via Eliot’s play, see Michael P. Jensen, Martyrdom and Identity: The Self on Trial (London: T&T Clark, 2010). 48. Christopher Daniell, A Traveller’s History of York (Gloucestershire: Chastleton, 2006), 86; Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 49. 49. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 50. 50. Sarah Brown and Nick Teed, Stained Glass at York Minster (London: Scala Arts and Heritage, 2017), 83. 51. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 63–​67, quotation at 63. 52. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 55–​56. 53. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 51; also see 66–​67. 54. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 55.

Notes  237 55. Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 67. 56. A more significant factor may be the decision of the church establishment in York not to champion the cause of Scrope’s canonization, preferring for various reasons instead to nurture his memory as a local saint. See Piroyansky, Martyrs in the Making, 54–​55, 70–​71. 57. Douillet, What Is a Saint?, 45–​48. See “Perpetua and Felicitas,” in ACM, ch. 20. 58. Nicholas Harpsfield, “The Life and Death of Sir Thomas More,” in Lives of Saint Thomas More, ed. E. E. Reynolds (London: Dent, 1963), 167. 59. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 173. 60. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 174. 61. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 108. See Job 2:9. 62. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 88; cf. 138. 63. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 146. 64. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 174. 65. Harpsfield, “Life and Death,” 172. 66. E.g., Foxe’s account of More’s role in the interrogation and martyrdom of Thomas Bilney (Acts and Monuments, 4:643–​56). 67. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 4:643, 688. 68. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 5:6. 69. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 4:688. 70. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 5:403. 71. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 5:384. 72. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 5:438. 73. For Foxe’s predictable comparison of the character of Cromwell and More see 5:366. 74. Dom Maurice Chauncy, The Passion and Martyrdom of the Holy English Carthusian Fathers: The Short Narration, ed. G. W. S. Curtis, trans. A. F. Radcliffe (London: SPCK, 1935), 77. 75. Chauncy, Passion and Martyrdom, 85. 76. Chauncy, Passion and Martyrdom, 123. 77. Marilynne Robinson, “Preface,” in Steward of God’s Covenant: Selected Writings, by John Calvin, ed. John F. Thornton and Susan B. Varenne, Vintage Spiritual Classics (New York: Vintage Books, 2006), xiii. 78. John Morrill, “Renaming England’s Wars of Religion,” in England’s Wars of Religion, Revisited, ed. Charles W. A. Prior and Glenn Burgess (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2011), 324. 79. Foxe does not apply the terminology or imagery of martyrdom to those executed in the 1401 uprising against the king in the north of England, with Archbishop Scrope at the head of the peasant army (Acts and Monuments, 3:230–​34). 80. Yoder characterizes these conflicts as the “crusade without the name” (When War Is Unjust, 22). 81. Ronald G. Asch, “Sacred Kingship in France and England: From Disenchantment to Re-​Enchantment?,” in Prior and Burgess, England’s Wars of Religion, 28. 82. Asch, “Sacred Kingship,” 29.

238 Notes 83. See Johnson, Ideology, ch. 2. Johnson reminds us, however, that technological factors also played a role in increasing the destructiveness of war. It was not only the involvement of religious conviction (Quest for Peace, 139–​40). 84. Mack P. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 1562–​1629, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 85. “The blood of these martyrs rapidly nourished the seeds of civil war.” Donald R. Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths, and the Massacre: The Background of St. Bartholomew,” in The Massacre of St. Bartholomew: Reappraisals and Documents, ed. Alfred Soman, International Archives of the History of Ideas 75 (The Hague: Nijhoff, 1974), 193. 86. Estimates of the number killed vary widely. The middling estimate of four to six thousand is taken from Barbara B. Diefendorf, The Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre: A Brief History with Documents, The Bedford Series in History and Culture (Boston: Bedford/​St. Martin’s, 2009), 23. On the inflated estimates from contemporaries of the massacred, see Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths,” 199–​200. 87. See Robert M. Kingdon, “Reactions to the St. Bartholomew Massacres in Geneva and Rome,” in Soman, Massacre of St. Bartholomew, 26–​27, 39–​49. Elsewhere Kingdon notes that this Catholic celebration by means of art is “something of an embarrassment to the Vatican in this more ecumenical age,” as the frescos are no longer regularly displayed in the Vatican Museums. Kingdon, Myths about the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacres: 1572–​1576 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988), 46. 88. Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths,” 182. 89. Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths,” 183–​84. 90. Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths,” 187. 91. Gregory, Salvation at Stake, 190–​92. 92. Jean Crespin, Histoire des martyrs, ed. Daniel Benoit (Toulouse: Sociéte des Livres Religieux, 1889), 3:665–​66 (translations mine). 93. Crespin, Histoire des martyrs, 3:666. See also Kingdon, Myths, 30. 94. Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths,” 197. 95. Crespin, Histoire des martyrs, 3:666. 96. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 8:750. 97. Kingdon, Myths, 1. 98. Kelley, “Martyrs, Myths,” 188, 194. 99. Kingdon, Myths, 29. 100. For a sampling, see Kingdon, Myths, 36–​37. 101. See the example accounts provided in Diefendorf, St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, 106–​8. 102. H. G. Koenigsberger, “Introduction,” in Soman, Massacre of St. Bartholomew, 3. 103. Koenigsberger, “Introduction,” 10. Though this point works well here in our discussion of martyrdom and violence, it must be said that the more immediate context in which Koenigsberger makes this statement is his attempt to explain why the Huguenots were so easily butchered, given that they had the skill and experience to avoid such an end. The answer he gives is that “their complete trust in the king” and his willingness to treat them justly was what accounts for their “complete failure to take even the most elementary military precautions” (10).

Notes  239 104. Kingdon, Myths, 38. 105. Kingdon, Myths, 217. 106. For a more fine-​tuned historical setting of this text, see Robert M. Kingdon, “Reactions,” in Soman, Massacre of St. Bartholomew, 26–​39. 107. Theodore Beza, Concerning the Rights of Rulers over Their Subjects and the Duty of Subjects towards Their Rulers, ed. A. H. Murray, trans. Henri-​Louis Gonin (Cape Town: HAUM, 1956), 82–​83, quotation at 82. 108. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 84. 109. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 83. 110. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 84–​85. 111. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 85. 112. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 85–​86. 113. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 85. 114. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 85. 115. Beza, Rights of Rulers, 86. 116. Robert Kingdon writes of Beza’s shock and existential despair at the massacre: “News of this sort must have come as a particularly severe blow to a man saturated in Calvinist theology—​in the Calvinist conviction of the omnipotence of God, of the pervasiveness of divine Providence, of the ways in which God controls every event in this universe. These dreadful massacres may well have suggested to Beza the terrible possibility that God was not a Calvinist after all” (“Reactions,” 32). 117. On the longer history of this hybrid, see Johnson, Ideology, ch. 2. 118. Luis N. Rivera Pagan, A Violent Evangelism: The Political and Religious Conquest of the Americas (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1992). For an attempt to deal with the theological and practical pressure that this history places on contemporary mission efforts, see Matthew D. Lundberg, “Repentance as a Paradigm for Christian Mission,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies 45, no. 2 (2010): 201–​17. 119. For a probing analysis of this extended historical moment and its sadly lingering implications, see Willie James Jennings, The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010). 120. Shusaku Endo, Silence, trans. William Johnston (Marlboro, NJ: Taplinger, 1980), 87. 121. Endo, Silence, 121–​22, quotation at 122. 122. Munaku Takubala, “The Martyrs of Uganda,” in Chenu, Book of Christian Martyrs, 156. 123. Takubala, “Martyrs of Uganda,” 157. 124. Takubala, “Martyrs of Uganda,” 156. 125. Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart (New York: Knopf, 1992). 126. Takubala, “Martyrs of Uganda,” 154. 127. Gregory J. Miller, “Wars of Religion and Religion in War: Luther and the 16th Century Islamic Advance into Europe,” Seminary Ridge Review 9, no. 2 (Spring 2007): 39–​43. 128. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 44–​45. 129. Martin Luther, “Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved,” 95; See also Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 49–​50.

240 Notes 130. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 50. 131. See Johnson, Quest for Peace, 145–​46. 132. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 51. 133. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 51–​53. 134. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 54. 135. See Paul Althaus, The Ethics of Martin Luther, trans. Robert C. Schultz (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1972), 142–​43. 136. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 54. 137. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 55, 58. 138. Miller, “Wars of Religion,” 55. 139. Martin Luther, “Against the Robbing and Murdering Hordes of Peasants,” in Luther’s Works, ed. Robert C. Schultz, vol. 46 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967), 53. 140. Luther, “Whether Soldiers, Too, Can be Saved.” 141. It worth noting Miller’s observation (“Wars of Religion,” 59) that Luther’s strong separation between the temporal and spiritual spheres, with war falling under the former, made it more difficult for the church in later centuries to play the role of conscience vis-​à-​vis the warring state. 142. Walters, “Just War and Crusade,” 585–​92. 143. Johnson, Ideology, ch. 2. 144. So contends Angeliki Laiou, “The Just War of Eastern Christians and the Holy War of the Crusaders,” in Ethics of War: Shared Problems in Different Traditions, ed. David Rodin and Richard Sorabji (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006), 30–​43. Cited in Kalantzis, Caesar and the Lamb, 200. For a more extensive exploration of these questions, see Goodin, “Just-​War Theory,” 249–​67. 145. As seen, perhaps most prominently, in Bainton, Christian Attitudes. For a charitable interpretation of the conceptual helpfulness of this strong distinction, despite its questionable applicability for historical purposes, see Walters, “Just War and Crusade,” 592–​94. 146. For this complex story, see Johnson, Ideology, 178–​203, 208–​32. 147. Again, on the quasi-​religious function of many modern “secular” causes for war, see Johnson, Quest for Peace, 211–​12. 148. Jean Bethke Elshtain, “Just War Tradition and the New War on Terrorism” (remarks in Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life Discussion, October 5, 2001), http://​www. pewforum.org/​2001/​10/​05/​just-​war-​tradition-​and-​the-​new-​war-​on-​terrorism/​. 149. E.g., as in the imagery used by Biggar, In Defence of War, 206.

Chapter 5 1. For a nuanced rejoinder to versions of this argument that target Augustine, see Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, 190. 2. This section adapts a portion of material previously presented, in 2017, to a study group that was part of the Convening Table on Theological Dialogue and Matters

Notes  241 of Faith and Order, of the National Council of Churches of Christ, USA. It was subsequently published as “Race and the Orders of Violence: Applying the Just War Tradition to Racialized Violence,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies 54, no. 3 (Summer © 2019): 381–​99. 3. On the need for clear distinctions, even though her own definition of violence is rather unclear in the end, see Hannah Arendt, On Violence (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1969), 4, 35–​37, 43–​46. 4. The importance of intent—​and its easy abuse—​frequently appears in the often hollow public denials of wrongdoing by well-​known figures accused of assault or harassment: “I would never intentionally cause harm to another person.” 5. The fact that structural racism is never fully innocent of our intentions is powerfully made by Ta-​Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2015), e.g., 70, 78–​79, 142–​43. In the same vein, the Fraternidad Teológica Latinoamericana speaks of “violence of omission” in regard to the Christian church’s silence in the face of oppression and human rights violations. See “Lima Declaration of the Latin American Theological Fellowship against Violence,” Journal of Latin American Theology 2, no. 1 (2007): 187. 6. We have here, of course, a strong parallel with discussions of moral and natural evil, including the difficulty of determining whether forces of nature that produce destruction are rightly regarded as evil. 7. See also Arendt’s concern about rooting descriptions of human violence in analogies with animal behavior (On Violence, 61ff., 75, 82). 8. See Ignacio Ellacuría, “Violence and Non-​Violence in the Struggle for Peace and Liberation,” trans. Paul Burns, in A Council for Peace, ed. Hans Küng and Jürgen Moltmann, Concilium 195 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), 72. 9. The just war writings of James Turner Johnson—​frequently invoked in these pages—​ clearly prefer the language of “force” or “coercion” to “violence.” See, for example, Can Modern War Be Just, 29. But he sometimes uses “violence” as a synonym, as in Quest for Peace, 92. 10. Along these lines, Robert Holmes describes war as “organized violence, the deliberate, systematic causing of death and destruction. This is true whether the means employed are nuclear bombs or bows and arrows” (On War and Morality, 180). 11. My terminology here resembles the terms used for forms of justice in Nicholas Wolterstorff, Acting Liturgically: Philosophical Reflections on Religious Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 273–​74. Wolterstorff uses “first-​order justice” to describe just and proper ways of human interaction, and “second-​order justice” to describe corrective action taken to address and rectify breakdowns in first-​ order justice. Second-​order justice is thus a response to problems in first-​order justice. It is in that sense that I speak here of second-​order violence—​violence that is some kind of response to initiating (first-​order) violence. In my usage there is thus no parallel to Wolterstorff ’s use of “first order” to refer to a state of affairs that ought to be. 12. Or, for another example, before his murder/​martyrdom in 1989, Ignacio Ellacuría insisted that revolutionary violence in 1970s and 1980s Latin America was not what should be dominating discussions about the morality of violence: “The original

242 Notes violence, the root and beginning of all other forms of violence in society, is what is called structural violence, which is simply structural injustice, the injustice of social structures, sanctioned by an unjust legal framework and an ideologically based cultural framework, which as such bring about the institutionalisation of injustice—​ institutional injustice” (“Violence and Non-​violence,” 70). In his view, using the generalized notion of physical force as our paradigm for violence (as in, say, discussions of the morality of violent revolution) distracts us from its true core, as well as its ambiguity. As he writes, if violence is by definition “the unjust use of force,” then it is obviously wrong. If, on the other hand, it refers to “the use of force pure and simple, then one at least has to say that some forms are worse than others, which leads one straight into the doctrine of the lesser evil” (p. 69). In other words, the original (i.e., first-​order) violence is the slower, grinding, subtle violence of poverty and political repression. Revolutionary violence, as with any kind of justified defensive violence sanctioned by just war thinking, is second-​order violence, intended to redress wrongs and, at its best, aimed at a just peace. For his fuller discussion of these matters, see Ellacuría, Freedom Made Flesh: The Mission of Christ and His Church, trans. John Drury (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1976), 187–​230. 13. A powerful and painful account of the relationship and spiraling of these “orders” of violence (though without using that terminology) in the context of American racism is Coates, Between the World and Me. 14. An example from Ellacuría’s El Salvador is how the profound and horrifying social violence of the country’s extended civil war in the 1970s and 1980s carried over in the next generation, both in El Salvador and in countries such as the United States, in a variety of forms, including brutally violent street gangs. See, for example, “MS-​13 Gang: The Story behind One of the World’s Most Brutal Street Gangs,” BBC News, April 19, 2017, http://​www.bbc.com/​news/​world-​us-​canada-​39645640. 15. The just war tradition obviously includes additional considerations, especially that of a sovereign authority vested with responsibility for the common good. Due to this element, the tradition has historically had an uneasy relationship with the use of violence for social and political change, although reflection on sovereign authority becoming tyrannical has provided an opening. See the summary discussion in Walters, “Five Classic Just-​War Theories,” 410–​11. 16. Ellul, Violence, 94. 17. Ellul, Violence, 95. His statement may hold true in some contexts, but may also significantly understate the severity of colonialist first-​order violence. 18. Arendt, On Violence, 80. 19. Ellul, Violence, 97. 20. Ellul, Violence, 100–​103. 21. Ellul, Violence, 7–​8, 109–​10. 22. As this argument is a standard rebuttal to pacifism, Richard Hays responds with a counter-​scenario: “An equally serious case can be made that, on balance, history teaches that violence simply begets violence. (Inevitably, someone raises the question about World War II: What if the Christians had refused to fight against Hitler? My answer is a counterquestion: What if the Christians in Germany had emphatically

Notes  243 refused to fight for Hitler, refused to carry out the murders in concentration camps?)” (Moral Vision, 342). The key insight of Hays’s counter-​question is that Christians so often fail to imagine the power and creative possibilities that may emerge if the Christian community ardently gives itself over to the ways of Christ’s in-​breaking kingdom. Its chief liability is that it fails to provide much of a resource for how we should respond in a world where there’s already violence happening, even with Christian complacency and complicity as contributing factors, that is, where aggression is in the process of destroying the vulnerable and marginalized. 23. See Fulford, Jesus and Pacifism, 26–​27, 57–​59; Dale C. Allison, The Sermon on the Mount: Inspiring the Moral Imagination, Companions to the New Testament (New York: Crossroad, 1999), 96. 24. Hans Dieter Betz, The Sermon on the Mount: A Commentary on the Sermon on the Mount, Including the Sermon on the Plain, ed. Adela Yarbro Collins, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 280–​81. 25. Douglas R. A. Hare, Matthew, Interpretation (Louisville, KY: John Knox, 1993), 55. 26. Hare, Matthew, 55–​56. Hare agrees with the proposal, perhaps made most famous by Walter Wink (and also supported by Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 289–​90), that the original striking of a cheek would have been a backhanded slap (the only way a righthanded strike could land on the right cheek), which would have been intended and experienced as a humiliating insult. However, Hare does not draw the conclusion drawn by Wink, namely, that turning the left cheek to the striker would then invite them to strike with the fist, implicitly “mak[ing] the other his equal, acknowledging him as a peer. . . . He has been given notice that this underling is in fact a human being. In that world of honor and shaming, he has been rendered impotent to instill shame in a subordinate. He has been stripped of his power to dehumanize the other.” Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 176–​77. 27. In this connection, we must keep in mind the feminist reminder that such generalizations about sin being rooted in pride or self-​assertion only go so far. See the important discussion by Susan L. Nelson, “The Sin of Hiding: A Feminist Critique of Reinhold Niebuhr’s Account of the Sin of Pride,” Soundings 65, no. 3 (September 1982): 316–​27. 28. See Fulford, Jesus and Pacifism, 11–​12, 24, 60. 29. Allison, Sermon on the Mount, 93. 30. See Hare, Matthew, 56; Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 291; Allison, Sermon on the Mount, 97. 31. Fulford, Jesus and Pacifism, 10–​11, 22–​23. 32. Hare, Matthew, 56. 33. This is Nigel Biggar’s reading; his critique of pacifists like Yoder is that they generalize beyond this historical context to a rejection of violence altogether. See In Defence of War, 23, 45–​47. 34. Hare, Matthew, 57. 35. Hare, Matthew, 58.

244 Notes 36. The term “prudential” is frequently used by James Turner Johnson; e.g., Morality and Contemporary Warfare, 34. 37. Hare, Matthew, 58–​59. 38. Hare, Matthew, 61. 39. It may be better to speak of a congruence between the two, especially if Andrew Fulford is correct that Jesus, in assuming Old Testament teaching, is also implicitly reaffirming tenets of natural law. See Jesus and Pacifism, 5, 12–​15, 53–​58. 40. Though he overstates the point, John Howard Yoder is not entirely off the mark when he writes that “when Christians of the fourth and fifth centuries began to justify military service, they did it not by finding new biblical materials or by deciding on bases from within the text that older biblical readings should be interpreted in new ways. Instead they inserted their understanding of the Bible within the framework of other new commitments, especially the conviction that the events of the fourth century had been providential, and the broad cultural assumption that it is fitting for Christians to assimilate the wisdom of their cultured neighbors” (Christian Attitudes, 77). Where Yoder goes too far in his assessment of the situation is his implication that there was no biblical rationale for the church’s adopting a just war viewpoint. While of course a new situation led to fresh theological reflection that was of course affected by that new situation, biblical teachings about concern for the vulnerable, God’s ordaining of the state for the common good, and the call to love were part of the mix of the emerging viewpoint. 41. Hays, Moral Vision, 330. 42. Hays, Moral Vision, 343. 43. “Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in ACM, ch. 17. 44. Wright has explored the model in various places: “How Can the Bible Be Authoritative?,” Vox Evangelica 21 (1991): 18–​19; The New Testament and the People of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 140–​43; Scripture and the Authority of God (New York: HarperOne, 2011), 121–​27. 45. Wright, “How Can the Bible Be Authoritative?,” 19. The proposal of an Act 6 is made explicit in the adaptation of Wright’s idea offered by J. Richard Middleton and Brian J. Walsh, Truth Is Stranger Than It Used to Be: Biblical Faith in a Postmodern Age (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 1995), 182. In his adaptation of Wright’s model, Samuel Wells also adds the eschaton as the final act. Wells, however, retains the five-​ act structure by his decision not to include sin/​fall as a distinct act in the biblical drama (Improvisation, 51–​57). 46. “The Martyrdom of Bishop Fructuosus and His Deacons,” in ACM, ch. 4. 47. “Martyrs of Lyons,” in ACM, 75. 48. “The Martyrdom of Saints Montanus and Lucius,” in ACM, ch. 17. This is not the Montanus after whom the notorious Montanist movement was named. 49. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 671; cf. 455, 500, 611, 676, 879, 975, 1036, 1122. 50. Sobrino, Archbishop Romero, 205. 51. Endo, Silence, 166. 52. Endo, Silence, 169. 53. Endo, Silence, 171.

Notes  245 54. Endo, Silence, 171, 164–​65. 55. For this way of expressing this point, I am indebted to Henry Ruitenberg. 56. Retaining sin as a distinct act in the story—​and according it a complex ongoing role in the later acts of the story—​is a key difference between my application of Wright’s five-​act play model and the variation of it proposed by Wells (see Improvisation, 143). 57. Barth, Church Dogmatics, 1.2:276. Cf. Barth’s discussion of the imitatio tradition in medieval mysticism in The Theology of John Calvin, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 60–​62. 58. See the discussion in J. Todd Billings, Union with Christ: Reframing Theology and Ministry for the Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011). 59. On these dynamics of contextual discernment in relation to the following of Jesus, see Jon Sobrino, Christology at the Crossroads: A Latin American Approach, trans. John Drury (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1978), 125–​31. 60. Biggar, In Defence of War, 56. 61. Hays, Moral Vision, 208–​9 (for his pacifist conclusion about it, see p. 340). Also see Swift, Early Fathers, 19–​20. 62. Wood, Perspectives on War, 10–​12. 63. Wood, Perspectives on War, 48–​61. 64. Wood, Perspectives on War, 14–​16. 65. Wood, Perspectives on War, 18. 66. “It was not that Yahweh was blindly partial to Israel, but, in this instance, Israel was the means whereby Yahweh punished wickedness” (Wood, Perspectives on War, 22). 67. Deut. 9:5 (emphasis added). 68. Victor Paul Furnish, “War and Peace in the New Testament,” Interpretation 38, no. 4 (October 1984): 364. Cited in Wood, Perspectives on War, 6. 69. Wood, Perspectives on War, 61–​66, 75–​76. 70. Wood, Perspectives on War, 66–​69. 71. Wood, Perspectives on War, 70–​71, quotation at 71. 72. Wood, Perspectives on War, 75–​76. 73. See especially Wood, Perspectives on War, 164–​70. 74. That is basically where Wood lands (see Perspectives on War, 174–​77). 75. Again, see Phyllis Trible’s classic, Texts of Terror. On the Old Testament theme of divine violence, see the recent explorations, with varying degrees of success, of Eric A. Seibert, Disturbing Divine Behavior: Troubling Old Testament Images of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009); Seibert, Violence of Scripture; Rob Barrett, Disloyalty and Destruction: Religion and Politics in Deuteronomy and the Modern World, Library of Hebrew Bible/​Old Testament Studies (New York: T&T Clark, 2009). 76. Driving such a wedge between Old Testament and New Testament is one of the problems of Gregory Boyd’s massive Crucifixion of the Warrior God: Interpreting the Old Testament’s Violent Portraits of God in Light of the Cross, 2 vols. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2017), despite its valiant attempt to deal with this difficult facet of the Christian canon. 77. Frend argues that this theme in Christian martyr literature is rooted especially in the books of Daniel and 4 Maccabees (Martyrdom and Persecution, 47–​68). 78. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 1:190.

246 Notes 79. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 7:53. On this theme in Foxe, see John R. Knott, Discourses of Martyrdom in English Literature, 1563–​1694 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 37. 80. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 655. Van Braght reflects at greater length on this theme on pp. 1095–​98. 81. Van Braght, Martyrs’ Mirror, 1097. This example offers additional evidence that the heart of Anabaptist pacifism is not an objection to violence per se, but a strong separation between church and world. See Johnson, Quest for Peace, 162–​72. 82. It is perhaps this danger that explains why Rubén Rosario Rodríguez, despite acknowledging the possibility of just war and even revolutionary violence, contends that nonviolence is “more faithful” to the witness of scripture (Christian Martyrdom, 216; cf. 181). In terms of the overall ontology of scripture (Acts 1, 4, and 6 of the drama) and considerations of what should be the initial “resort” to aggression and injustice, the “more faithful” label seems to fit. But to say “more faithful” in a sweeping sense misses some important considerations, which this section has examined. 83. Biggar, In Defence of War, 76–​77. 84. Thus Johnson includes the just war ethic along with forms of pacifism as a historic expression of the quest for peace (Quest for Peace, xii). 85. See Richard J. Plantinga, Thomas R. Thompson, and Matthew D. Lundberg, An Introduction to Christian Theology, Introduction to Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 12–​17, 20–​21. 86. As Wood states, “Great diversities of opinion existed simultaneously throughout most of the biblical period. . . . There was, in fact, no one normative view about warfare.” Perspectives on War, 5 (italics removed). 87. On the lengthy debates about “adiaphora” in Anglicanism, see Mark Chapman, Anglican Theology, Doing Theology (London: T&T Clark, 2012). 88. As Biggar writes, “Whichever horn one chooses to sit on, the sitting should not be comfortable. Allowing evils to happen is not necessarily innocent, any more than actually causing them is necessarily culpable. Omission and commission are equally obliged to give an account of themselves” (In Defence of War, 7; cf. 32–​33). 89. As Johnson similarly writes, “The Christian warrior must feel a hand on his shoulder and a cautioning voice in his ear, even though he believes he is right to have taken up arms—​at least, so far as he is able to discern for himself ” (Just War Tradition, xxxi). 90. Niebuhr, Christianity and Power Politics, 31. 91. R. John Elford, “Christianity and War,” in The Cambridge Companion to Christian Ethics, ed. Robin Gill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 175.

Chapter 6 1. In these remaining two chapters, I will also defend the application of the term “realism” to the just war ethic, despite the fact that some writers strongly distinguish the two.

Notes  247 2. Niebuhr, Christianity and Power Politics, 21–​26. 3. See Niebuhr, Nature and Destiny of Man, 2:81–​90. 4. Niebuhr, Interpretation of Christian Ethics, 67. 5. Johnson rightly characterizes Niebuhr as a just war advocate despite the latter’s eschewing of the label and relative disinterest in the tradition (Just War Tradition, 334). 6. The critique of Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, to which we will return later in this chapter. 7. In “Why the Christian Church Is Not Pacifist,” published in 1940, Niebuhr himself uses these examples from World War I and World War II (in Christianity and Power Politics, 6, 16, 23). 8. Niebuhr, Interpretation of Christian Ethics, 137. Cf. Biggar, In Defence of War, 210. 9. For example, Ramsey (a beneficiary of this Niebuhrian rearticulation of the Augustinian tradition) uses the language of “tragic” (War and the Christian Conscience, 29). 10. A point that Rowan Williams was even willing to grant to Islamist terrorist groups. See Rowan Williams, “War and Statecraft: An Exchange [with George Weigel],” First Things 141 (March 2004): 16. 11. In reflecting on this facet of just war history, Ramsey speculates that “this was for any private animosity that may have arisen in [the soldier], and also as a precaution in case he had been involved in doing an injustice which, however, he [being merely a soldier] had not to determine” (War and the Christian Conscience, 115). Also see the discussions in Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 36–​43, 104–​5; and Johnson, Morality and Contemporary Warfare, 212–​15. 12. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethics, ed. Clifford J. Green, trans. Reinhard Krauss, Charles C. West, and Douglas W. Stott, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works 6 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 247 (cf. 219). One of the interpretive issues involved in using Bonhoeffer’s Ethics as a resource is the fact that he was executed before he could finalize the book. What we have available to us are only his manuscripts—​rather meticulously edited and annotated by Bonhoeffer scholars—​which include two versions of “History and Good,” both included in the critical edition of the book. Presumably Bonhoeffer would have merged and reconciled the two drafts if he had had time and leisure to complete the book. I will largely follow “History and Good [2]‌,” as it appears to represent more fully where Bonhoeffer was heading with this section of the book; occasionally I will bring in elements of “History and Good [I],” as well as other sections from the book. 13. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 284. 14. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 264. 15. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 261–​62. 16. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 263. 17. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 264; see also 134, 266–​67. 18. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 251. 19. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 252–​53. 20. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 266. 21. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 254, 257, 258, 261.

248 Notes 22. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 275; cf. 233–​35. 23. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 136. 24. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 276–​78, quotation at 276. 25. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 279, 280. 26. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 248. 27. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 283. 28. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 272–​73. 29. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 273. 30. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 284, 261 (cf. 222). 31. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 268. 32. Cf. his famous essay fragment on “telling the truth,” which was appended to the original English translation of Ethics. Bonhoeffer, “What Does It Mean to Tell the Truth?,” in Conspiracy and Imprisonment: 1940–​1945, ed. Mark S. Brocker, trans. Lisa E. Dahill, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works 16 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 601–​8. 33. Immanuel Kant, “On a Supposed Right to Lie from Philanthropy,” in Practical Philosophy, trans. Mary Gregor, Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 611–​15. 34. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 279, 280. 35. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 282–​83. 36. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 228. 37. Perhaps especially seen in his book Discipleship. 38. Bonhoeffer the Assassin? Challenging the Myth, Recovering His Call to Peacemaking (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2013). These authors draw considerably from Sabine Dramm, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and the Resistance, trans. Margaret Kohl (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009). 39. Nation, Siegrist, and Umbel, Bonhoeffer the Assassin?, 87. 40. Clifford J. Green, “Peace Ethic or ‘Pacifism’? An Assessment of Bonhoeffer the Assassin,” Modern Theology 31, no. 1 (January 2015): 201–​8. 41. Part of a homiletical discussion at Finkenwalde after a sermon on war. Bonhoeffer, Theological Education at Finkenwalde: 1935–​ 1937, ed. H. Gaylon Barker and Mark S. Brocker, trans. Douglas W. Stott, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works 14 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), 766. Quoted in Green, “Peace Ethic or Pacifism,” 205. 42. Green, “Peace Ethic or Pacifism,” 206. 43. For his longer discussion of the theological underpinnings of Bonhoeffer’s leaning toward nonviolence yet his view that the Christian commitment to peace could never categorically rule out the possibility of violence in extreme situations, see Clifford J. Green, “Pacifism and Tyrannicide: Bonhoeffer’s Christian Peace Ethic,” Studies in Christian Ethics 18, no. 3 (2005): 31–​47. 44. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 109–​10. 45. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 189–​90. 46. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 244–​45. 47. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 274. 48. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 297. 49. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 140–​41.

Notes  249 50. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 285. 51. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 238, 284. 52. There is reason to believe that Bonhoeffer was somewhat aware of this danger, as we shall see in Chapter 7. 53. With one of the most influential being Yoder, “What Would You Do If,” 81–​105. 54. On this issue more broadly, see Kenneth R. Himes, Drones and the Ethics of Targeted Killing (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2016). 55. It is indeed striking that, during the initial writing of this chapter, much of the mainstream news centered around the revelation of sexual assault and sexual harassment in the United States, most notably in the context of Hollywood and Washington, DC. While the Twitter hashtag #MeToo received most of the press, it was not long until an additional hashtag, #ChurchToo, highlighted the fact that what was so easily condemned in Hollywood has also happened, often with a more sinister theological and spiritual rationalization and cover-​up, within the Christian community. 56. On which, see Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 791–​97. 57. I will use these terms interchangeably. What follows in the next two paragraphs is only a short adumbration of a complex biblical theme. For a fuller discussion of the theme of calling/​vocation in the Bible, whose argument I draw upon here, see Douglas J. Schuurman, Vocation: Discerning Our Callings in Life (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 17–​47. 58. Cf. J. Richard Middleton, The Liberating Image: The Imago Dei in Genesis 1 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005). 59. Schuurman notes that the very term that the New Testament uses for the Christian community—​ekklesia (church)—​includes within it the notion of calling: ek (out of), klesia (called). As such, the church is “the assembly of ‘called out ones,’ ” those who are “called out of the world by God to serve God in the world” (Vocation, 18). 60. Schuurman, Vocation, 26. He notes that Martin Luther couches this same distinction in terms of “spiritual calling” and “external calling” (pp. 17, 26). 61. Schuurman, Vocation, 33. 62. Schuurman, Vocation, 34. 63. Schuurman, Vocation, 36. 64. Schuurman, Vocation, 35. 65. “Bishop Fructuosus,” in ACM, ch. 1. 66. “The Martyrdom of Saints Carpus, Papylus, and Agathonice,” in ACM, 28–​29. 67. Barth, Church Dogmatics, 3.4:601. 68. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 57–​58. 69. Martin Luther, “The Judgment of Martin Luther on Monastic Vows,” in Luther’s Works, ed. James Atkinson, vol. 44 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966), 255. See also Martin Luther, “To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation,” in Three Treatises, trans. Charles M. Jacobs (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1970), 12–​16. 70. Luther, “On Monastic Vows,” 262–​63. See also Lindberg, European Reformations, 128–​31. 71. As Bernhard Lohse summarizes, “Life as a monk or a nun is thus a calling that is ultimately no different from any other secular calling.” Martin Luther’s Theology: Its

250 Notes Historical and Systematic Development, trans. Roy Harrisville (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), 142. 72. Luther, “On Monastic Vows,” 294–​95. Luther recognizes that, though all Christians are called to pastor one another, they are not all called to the formal office of pastor. But the office of ministry is just a call to do formally what all Christians must do. As Paul Althaus writes, “The special office to which an individual is called out of the community of universal priests has no other content and also no other authority than the priesthood of all the others.” The Theology of Martin Luther, trans. Robert C. Schultz (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966), 326. 73. Schuurman, Vocation, 47. 74. On this rich theme in Luther, see Gustaf F. Wingren, Luther on Vocation, trans. Carl C. Rasmussen (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg, 1957), 63–​77; Althaus, Ethics of Martin Luther, 39–​41. 75. Biggar, In Defence of War, 31. 76. A groundbreaking example is Gustavo Gutiérrez, A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics and Salvation, trans. Caridad Inda and John Eagleson, rev. ed. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1988), 43–​46. 77. Cf. Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, 248, who articulates a Calvinist sense of calling to the work of governance, but not how sword-​bearing occupations fit into the picture. 78. See Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, rev. ed. (New York: New Press, 2012); Antonios Kireopoulos, Mitzi J. Budde, and Matthew D. Lundberg, eds., Thinking Theologically about Mass Incarceration: Biblical Foundations and Justice Imperatives, National Council of Churches Faith & Order Commission Theological Series (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist, 2017). 79. See Lohse, Martin Luther’s Theology, 246–​47. 80. John Calvin writes that the function of civil government is “no less than that of bread, water, sun, and air,” for it makes the basic activities of life possible. Calvin continues, however, that “its place of honor is far more excellent” because of proper government’s role in preventing idolatry “and other public offenses against religion.” In the same short paragraph, then, he links a creational role for government with its role in resisting the effects of sinfulness. Institutes of the Christian Religion, ed. John T. McNeill, trans. Ford Lewis Battles, Library of Christian Classics 20 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1960), 4.20.3. 81. Luther, “Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved,” 129. 82. Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, 2.2, q. 40, art. 2. Unless otherwise indicated, all quotations in this paragraph come from this answer. 83. Johnson shows that the prohibition against clergy bearing arms has patristic roots (and accordingly provided a conduit for the early church’s pacifist impulse to take new form) and peculiarly medieval roots—​denying arms to clergy meant that they could be protected from harm as noncombatants. See Quest for Peace, 55–​56; Just War Tradition, 127–​28. 84. It is worth noting that Thomas thinks that even the “lowest,” most ordinary Christian should be open to the prospect of martyrdom. 85. Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, 2.2, q. 40, art. 2, reply to obj. 3.

Notes  251 86. We should note, incidentally, that Thomas, in the midst of the era of crusading, approves of the possibility of a religious order devoted to “soldiering” for the true faith (see SS, Q 188, art. 3). 87. In his long-​standing argument against “nuclear pacifism,” which uses in bello rules to undercut serious consideration of the ad bellum responsibilities of the just war framework, James Turner Johnson regularly argues that the just war approach does not include a “presumption against” force or military violence. Rather, it is rooted in a “presumption against injustice” (e.g., Morality and Contemporary Warfare, 35). Though not using the phrases, Johnson’s logic is captured well here: At the core of the just war idea is the perception that the use of armed force in a given circumstance is justified by the good it can do. The just war idea is not a dirty-​hands conception of armed force in which use of such force is always assumed to be bad but can be overruled in certain dire situations; nor is it a lesser evil conception in which the evils war brings are balanced against any good it does by eliminating greater evils. . . . Just war thinking is different; it is about using armed force to establish order, justice, and peace, and dealing with the evils war necessarily brings with it is part of the good at which it aims. “Moral Responsibility after Conflict: The Idea of Jus Post Bellum for the Twenty-​ First Century,” in Ethics Beyond War’s End, ed. Eric Patterson (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2012), 30. While I generally think Johnson is right, a Christian realist perspective demands a greater sense of the tragedy even of war that accomplishes good. If right intention involves lament regarding the evils of war and a clear-​sighted aim at the peace to be achieved by war, then war itself is put into a position of being a less-​than-​desirable and temporary state of affairs. From this angle, war is not exactly a neutral part of the political playbook; and if not, then there is a sort of presumption against force. It seems correct to say that the presumption against injustice is primary (and thus, given a serious just cause, war is indeed a tool in the political playbook). But if it is to be lamented and never its own end, there is a secondary “presumption against violence.” 88. Calvin, Institutes, 3.3.5–​9. 89. See C. J. Chivers, The Fighters: Americans in Combat in Afghanistan and Iraq (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2018), which addresses the divide between the military and the country socially, culturally, in terms of perceived price, and other categories. 90. It is worth pondering here a point that Ta-​Nehisi Coates makes about the police officer who killed one of his friends. “I knew that Prince was not killed by a single officer so much as he was murdered by his country and all the fears that have marked it from birth” (Between the World and Me, 78). 91. Rita Nakashima Brock and Gabriella Lettini, Soul Repair: Recovering from Moral Injury after War (Boston: Beacon, 2012), 40. 92. Brock and Lettini, Soul Repair, xiv. 93. Brock and Lettini, Soul Repair, xv. 94. Peter A. French, War and Moral Dissonance (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), viii.

252 Notes 95. Tom Frame, “Moral Injury and the Influence of Christian Religious Conviction,” in War and Moral Injury: A Reader, ed. Robert Emmet Meagher and Douglas A. Pryer (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2018), 192–​93. Henceforth the Meagher and Pryer collection will be abbreviated as WMI. 96. See Shannon E. French and Anthony I. Jack, “Connecting Neuroethics and Military Ethics to Help Prevent Moral Injury,” in WMI, 270–​71. 97. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 4–​5. Probably due to the soldier’s young age and the stresses of war, Meagher charitably characterizes this soldier as “not a war criminal.” His brief account, however, seems to describe an act that is a war crime by international standards, regardless of how much compassion we have for the psychological strain and moral dilemmas faced by soldiers in such situations. Meagher’s choice of terminology may also be rooted in his rejection of a moral distinction between killing and murder (e.g., xix, 129–​30). Rejecting such a distinction, however, would seem to require belief that all war, including all actions therein that result in death, is murder—​perhaps not a war crime, but all war as crime, a conclusion that befits Meagher’s pacifist proclivities. 98. See Brock and Lettini, Soul Repair, xv; Meagher, “Hope Dies Last,” in WMI, 322. 99. Pete Kilner, “Leadership, War, and Moral Injury,” in WMI, 95. 100. Timothy Kudo, “On War and Redemption,” in WMI, 80. 101. Kudo, “On War and Redemption,” 79. Cf. Edward Tick, “Military Service, Moral Injury, and Spiritual Wounding,” in WMI, 315. 102. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 37–​41, 92–​93. 103. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 42. 104. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, xiv. 105. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, xv. 106. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 139, 129–​32, 144. 107. Cited in Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 139. 108. Here I draw upon Johnson’s taxonomy of pacifisms; see Quest for Peace, xii–​xiii. 109. This is the argument Meagher unfurls in Chapters 4–​7 of Killing from the Inside Out. 110. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 91; cf. 108. 111. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, xx. 112. See Johnson, Ideology, chs. 3-​4. 113. Sean Levine, “Legal War, Sin, and ‘Moral Injury’ in the Age of Modern Warfare,” in WMI, 227. 114. Quoted in Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 139. 115. Niebuhr, Christianity and Power Politics, 22–​30. 116. Levine, “Legal War,” in WMI, 228. 117. Douglas A. Pryer, “What We Don’t Talk about When We Talk about War,” in WMI, 70. 118. Tick, “Military Service,” in WMI, 310. 119. Kilner, “Leadership, War, and Moral Injury,” in WMI, 97, 99. 120. Kilner, “Leadership, War, and Moral Injury,” 98. French and Jack argue that this involves cultivating the ability of soldiers to shift quickly between strategic and empathetic modes of thinking—​in the former, soldiers should not be dwelling on the

Notes  253 humanity of enemy soldiers but impersonally performing the actions necessary to complete their mission; in the latter, however, when not actively in battle, they recognize the humanity in the combatants and noncombatants around them. In neither case, French and Jack argue, is “animalistic dehumanization” of the enemy morally or tactically desirable. “Neuroethics and Military Ethics,” in WMI, 280–​81. 121. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 99. 122. Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 98–​99. 123. Kilner, “Leadership, War, and Moral Injury,” in WMI, 100. 124. Levine, “Legal War,” in WMI, 230. 125. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 8 (italics added). 126. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 16. 127. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 18, cf. 23; Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 20–​25. 128. Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 14. 129. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 19. 130. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 20. 131. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 34–​61. 132. Douillet, What Is a Saint, 84–​91, phrase at 88; also see Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 39–​44. 133. Douillet distinguishes between recognized saints and anonymous holy men and women, “some of them perhaps greater in the eyes of God than canonized saints,” who died without their holiness being acclaimed in the same way as the official saints. He acknowledges that “publicity” is needed for someone to be named a saint. This may help to explain the preference the Catholic Church has shown for bishops, priests, and members of religious orders in its official ranks of canonized saints (What Is a Saint, 118). Cunningham offers additional reasons for the “clerical overloading” of the Roman calendar of saints, some of them more problematic than those acknowledged by Douillet. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 50–​54 (phrase at 50). 134. This distinction, of course, was also pivotal for the settling of the iconoclastic controversy in the eighth century, and thus for the enduring role of icons in the church, both East and West. For one of the most important statements of this distinction, see John of Damascus, Exposition of the Orthodox Faith, trans. S. D. F Salmond, in Nicene and Post-​Nicene Fathers, Second Series, vol. 9, ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1993), 4.16. 135. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 31. 136. Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 4, 6–​8. 137. Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 7. 138. Calvin, Institutes, 1.12.1. 139. Calvin, Institutes, 3.20.22. 140. Calvin, Institutes, 3.14.12–​17. 141. This is a point that today’s Catholic theology recognizes, as we can see in Lutheran World Federation and Roman Catholic Church, Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), paras. 12, 20, 38. 142. Calvin, Institutes, 3.14.18, 20.

254 Notes 143. Euan Cameron, “Saints, Martyrs, and the Reformation: Reflections on Robert Bartlett’s Why Can the Dead Do Such Great Things,” Church History 85, no. 4 (December 2016): 804. 144. Calvin, Institutes, 4.1.3. 145. Taylor, A Secular Age, 61–​84. 146. Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 8. 147. Cameron, “Saints, Martyrs, and the Reformation,” 808. 148. Cunningham is happy to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Protestant critique of “the degeneration of the saints into demigods in the popular religious imagination” (Meaning of Saints, 30). 149. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 65 (italics removed). The following discussion will draw from pp. 65–​84. See pp. 80–​81 for his comparison of his own definition with the more official understanding of the Catholic Church. 150. Cunningham laments the fact that the Catholic Church’s historic focus on miracles has lessened the role of the actual person and personality that is the saint (p. 24). Kieckhefer perhaps helps to explain this de-​individualizing of the saint in his discussion of the genre of hagiography. The hagiographer tends to assimilate the saint to various types of sainthood. Kieckhefer mentions “holy monk,” “martyr,” “saintly bishop,” and “Christian monarch” as examples (“Imitators of Christ,” 32). While this may be lamented (as in Cunningham), according to Kieckhefer, “The ultimate theological ground for this tendency is the idea that the saint is a saint because she or he reembodies the holiness of Christ. It is only as an alter Christus that anyone can attain sainthood” (33). 151. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 73. 152. Karl Rahner, “The Church of the Saints,” in Theological Investigations, trans. Karl-​H. and Boniface Kruger, vol. 3 (Baltimore: Helicon, 1967), 100. Quoted in Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 35. 153. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 77. 154. Cunningham, Meaning of Saints, 48. 155. Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 39. 156. Jon Sobrino, “‘In Archbishop Romero God Passed through El Salvador,’” in Fathers of the Church in Latin America, ed. Silvia Scatena, Jon Sobrino, and Luiz Carlos Susin, Concilium 2009/​5 (London: SCM, 2009), 83. At the same time, we should not exaggerate Romero’s traditionalism or conservatism prior to his shift toward activist ministry. See Rosario, Christian Martyrdom, 203. 157. Jon Sobrino, Witnesses to the Kingdom: The Martyrs of El Salvador and the Crucified Peoples (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2003), 29. 158. Sobrino, Witnesses to the Kingdom, 96. 159. See Kieckhefer, “Imitators of Christ,” 3. 160. Roth, “Complex Legacy,” 312. 161. “The Martyrs of Lyons,” in ACM, 77. 162. Foxe, Acts and Monuments, 8:90. 163. See Wells, Improvisation, 44. 164. See, e.g., the illustrations and brief discussion in Mornin, Saints, 18–​19, 116–​17.

Notes  255

Chapter 7 1. Elisabeth Elliot makes a similar point in relation to her husband, Jim, who has often been called a martyr (including in an earlier book she wrote) after being killed in 1956 by a tribe deep in the Amazon in one of the most famous twentieth-​century missionary martyrdoms. Two years later, however, in a biography about her husband, she writes: He and the other men with whom he died were hailed as heroes, “martyrs.” I do not approve. Nor would they have approved. Is the distinction between living for Christ and dying for Christ, after all, so great? Is not the second the logical conclusion of the first? Furthermore, to live for God is to die, “daily,” as the apostle Paul put it. It is to lose everything that we may gain Christ. It is in thus laying down our lives that we find them. . . . Those who want to know [Christ] must walk the same path with Him. These are the “martyrs” in the Scriptural sense of the word, which means simply “witnesses.” In life, as well as in death, we are called to be “witnesses.” Elliot, Shadow of the Almighty: The Life and Testament of Jim Elliot (New York: Harper, 1958), 11–​12. 2. Joseph Fletcher, Situational Ethics: The New Morality (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1966). 3. It also informs the work of Paul Ramsey, whose defense of the just war ethic has appeared throughout this book. 4. H. Richard Niebuhr, The Responsible Self: An Essay in Christian Moral Philosophy (New York: Harper & Row, 1963), 48–​57. 5. Niebuhr, Responsible Self, 60–​61. 6. Niebuhr, Responsible Self, 67. 7. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 248. 8. One of the difficulties for a theological use of Walzer’s Just and Unjust Wars is the fact that he roots the morality of war in something akin to natural law, although with keen awareness of the social, cultural, and historical mediations of it. On the one hand, he finds the nucleus of noncombatant immunity to be rooted in “universal notions of right and wrong” (42). On the other hand, “War is a social creation” (43) and hence the rights of noncombatants to immunity from direct attack are rooted in a complex amalgam of “articulated norms, customs, professional codes, legal precepts, religious and philosophical principles, and reciprocal arrangements” (44). Because of this, Walzer appeals not only to codes of law, whether national or international, nor only to “legal handbooks,” but also to “the moral arguments that everywhere accompany the practice of war,” especially speeches of political leaders and officers, and memoirs of soldiers at every level of the military hierarchy (44–​45). In the course of his analysis, Walzer frequently appeals to the observation that “we” regularly make judgments about particular facets of war, sometimes informal judgments that exhibit more clarity than legal resources. His task as a moral philosopher “is to study the pattern as a whole, reaching for its deepest reasons” (45). Johnson helpfully calls Walzer’s an “intuitionist moral reasoning” (Ethics, 15). For a theological examination

256 Notes of war and violence—​with, let us not forget, martyrdom functioning as a heuristic guide—​there are certain categories in which to situate Walzer’s type of analysis, with “natural law” as a subset of what is sometimes called “general revelation” being the most obvious. Yet Christian theology typically subordinates such resources to “special revelation,” especially the voice of scripture that informs the specifically theological resources of Christian tradition. If Paul Ramsey (as discussed in Chapter 3) is correct that the deepest reservoir of the Western just war mindset is the Christian call to love, not merely as an emotion or sentiment, but as a commitment to action, a reservoir that still funds the tradition unbeknownst to most of its practitioners, we can consider Walzer’s analysis to be a penetrating and therefore useful analysis of the dynamics of an ethical impulse that for the Christian remains incomplete and partial apart from consideration of scripture and Christ, perhaps as aided by other distinctively Christian resources, such as a theological conception of martyrdom. 9. See William V. O’Brien, “The International Law of War as Related to the Western Just War Tradition,” in Just War and Jihad: Historical and Theoretical Perspectives on War and Peace in Western and Islamic Traditions, ed. John Kelsay and James Turner Johnson, Contributions to the Study of Religion 28 (New York: Greenwood, 1991), 180–​81. For O’Brien’s synthetic definition of the precise sense of military necessity, see The Conduct of Just and Limited War (New York: Praeger, 1981), 66–​67. 10. Walzer acknowledges that there is a deontological element, especially with “just cause”: namely, the rights of a state to territorial integrity and political sovereignty have been violated, and there is a duty to respond. 11. E.g., Johnson, Morality and Contemporary Warfare, 34, 41–​43. 12. In his consideration of moral injury, Robert Meagher writes: “The simple truth is that the rules of war are not the rules of peace. War has always required a radical recalibration of conscience, of our shared understanding of good and evil, of right and wrong, the crossing of a line that something deep, profoundly deep in in us, warns us not to cross” (“Hope Dies Last,” in WMI, 321). 13. This is a common observation. A just war ethicist like Johnson can make it (e.g., Can Modern War Be Just, 30–​31; Just War Tradition, 305); and a pacifist like Yoder can make it (e.g., When War Is Unjust, 64–​65). 14. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 227. 15. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 138–​43. 16. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 143. Cf. Johnson, Just War Tradition, 274. 17. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 144. Here he quotes the words of Morris Greenspan’s The Modern Law of Land Warfare (Berkley: University of California Press, 1959), 313–​14. 18. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 144; cf. 148–​49. 19. It is important to note that Walzer’s analysis focuses on the reasoning implicit in one soldier’s decision not to shoot his naked enemy; the soldier’s sergeant, however, decided to shoot the naked man (Just and Unjust Wars, 139–​40). 20. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 144. Indeed, this matter of choices is one of the red threads that runs through the just war analysis of James Turner Johnson. The language of “necessity” can give the impression that war is inherently out of control,

Notes  257 that technology and human passions make it uncontrollable. Johnson, however, emphasizes that moral intentionality is crucial (see especially Can Modern War Be Just). Ironically, Johnson notes, it was military “necessity” (i.e., limitations in weapons and technology) that encouraged restraints in war in earlier ages. With swords as the main weapon, it is hard to create mass destruction (though Johnson draws upon the genocide in Rwanda to show that it is not impossible [Ethics, 28–​29]). Intentionality is the only thing that will restrain war and its new forms of “necessity” in today’s era of technology and weapons of greater destructive power. 21. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 145. Cf. the discussion by Holmes, On War and Morality, 175–​82. 22. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 158, 228. 23. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 146. On the history of this slide, see Johnson, Quest for Peace, 219–​26. 24. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 249. 25. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 231. 26. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 253, 254. 27. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 259–​61. 28. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 262. For his discussion of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, see pp. 263–​68. 29. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 231. 30. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 261, 323. 31. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 323. 32. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 325. 33. Cf. Johnson, Can Modern War Be Just, 186–​90. 34. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 326. 35. This second sense of “necessity” is closest to the precise definition of military necessity articulated by O’Brien in Conduct of Just and Limited War, 66–​67. 36. Again, see Johnson, Quest for Peace, 109–​27, 153–​70, 176–​98. 37. Elshtain, “Reflections on War,” in Just War Theory, 261. 38. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 3. 39. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 10. 40. The belief that war lies beyond reason and morality can also flow from an idealist perspective. In Killing from the Inside Out, Robert Emmet Meagher, for example, rejects a meaningful distinction between killing and murder, and rejects the project of “justifying” our wars, because he believes that such justifications are little more than rationalizations (xix–​xx). Proportionality and fair fighting, in his view, don’t actually describe war, which is sheerly a matter of winning (132). He also criticizes Christian just war theorists (e.g., Grotius) as unsuccessfully proposing just war as a mean between idealism and amoral realism (124). Meagher’s leaning toward the pole of idealism is shown when he cites approvingly Camus’s “hope in the fundamental decency and good will of humankind, hope in our essential solidarity, hope in what he saw as the human consortium of the damned, mortals doomed to die but not doomed to die at one another’s hands” (144). 41. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 15.

258 Notes 42. This is the mapping offered, for example, by a 2001 “Letter from America” signed by many notable political theorists and other public intellectuals (including Walzer, Johnson, and Elshtain). See the appendix to Jean Bethke Elshtain, Just War against Terror: The Burden of American Power in a Violent World (New York: Basic Books, 2003), 202–​3. John Courtney Murray employs similar terminology. Traditional Catholic doctrine of just war, he writes, “finds a way between false extremes of pacifism and bellicism” or between “a soft sentimental pacifism and a cynical hard realism.” Morality and Modern War, Ethics and Foreign Policy (New York: Council on Religion and International Affairs, 1959), 10, 15. 43. Even some pacifists attempt to do so. E.g., Duane K. Friesen, Christian Peacemaking and International Conflict: A Realist Perspective (Scottdale, PA: Herald, 1986). As another example, just war thinking stands at the heart of the “realist” approach to politics in Ronald H. Stone, Christian Realism and Peacemaking: Issues in U.S. Foreign Policy (Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1988). 44. Elshtain, “Reflections on War,” in Just War Theory, 264–​69. 45. Johnson, Quest for Peace, xiii. 46. Elshtain, Just War against Terror, 20. 47. On the paradoxes within Augustine as a middle ground between cynical realism and naive idealism, see Stevenson, Christian Love and Just War, 151. 48. Elshtain, “Reflections on War,” in Just War Theory, 265. 49. Cf. Niebuhr, Christianity and Power Politics, 21–​26. 50. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 279–​80. 51. Green, “Pacifism and Tyrannicide,” 45. 52. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 283, 282. 53. Bonhoeffer, Ethics, 287–​88. 54. Yoder, When War Is Unjust, 27–​28. Paul Ramsey echoes this concern with his discomfort with a situation of nuclear deterrence, where “there is no limit to the direct, mass killing of people which political or military ends seem to require, and that murder comes just whenever it is done, not for some private good, but for the public good and when planned on a grand scale” (War and the Christian Conscience, xxii). 55. Yoder, When War Is Unjust, 30. 56. Yoder, When War Is Unjust, 80. 57. There is reason to believe that he is not. Though not focused on Yoder, the just war writings of James Turner Johnson are the most sustained historical counterargument. Nevertheless, as LeRoy Walters notes, restraint of and warrant for war tend to be uneasy bedfellows in just war theorizing (“Five Classic Just-​War Theories,” 414–​17). 58. Biggar, In Defence of War, 21. 59. See Karen J. Greenberg and Joshua L. Dratel, eds., The Torture Papers: The Road to Abu Ghraib, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 60. Jean Bethke Elshtain, “Reflection on the Problem of ‘Dirty Hands,’” in Torture: A Collection, ed. Sanford Levinson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 78. 61. Elshtain, “Problem of Dirty Hands,” 83.

Notes  259 62. Mark Bowden, “The Dark Art of Interrogation,” The Atlantic, October 2003, https://​ www.theatlantic.com/​magazine/​archive/​2003/​10/​the-​dark-​art-​of-​interrogation/​ 302791/​. 63. Elshtain, “Problem of Dirty Hands,” 87. 64. See Bill Russell Edmonds, God Is Not Here: A Soldier’s Struggles with Torture, Trauma, and the Moral Injuries of War (New York: Pegasus, 2015), 90. 65. Here we see an in bello norm (noncombatant immunity) contributing to the success of an ad bellum norm (right intention—​fighting toward a just peace). On the broader relationship, see Johnson, Morality and Contemporary War, 208–​13. 66. See the discussion of “ordinary” vs. “inventive and revolutionary” imagination in Wells, Improvisation, 76. 67. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 262, 268. 68. In fact, here we have a striking parallel with what just war interpreters have called “double effect”: that the negative effect must be only an unintended (even if foreseen) effect of the positive effect that is aimed at. 69. See Chapter 1. 70. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 19–​20, 31. 71. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 34 (italics added). 72. Accordingly, a Christian just war approach can resonate with everything but the pacifist assumption of Wells: “It is the task of the [Christian] imagination to change or challenge the presumed necessities of the world” (Improvisation, 125). 73. On the history of this distinction, see Johnson, Just War Tradition, 44–​49. 74. For a helpful snapshot of these levels of society in relation to both ad bellum and in bello considerations, see Johnson, Morality and Contemporary Warfare, 25–​26. 75. E.g., Johnson, Ethics, 27; Johnson, Morality and Contemporary Warfare, 34–​36. 76. George Weigel, “Moral Clarity in a Time of War,” First Things 129 (January 2003): 26–​27. 77. Yoder, When War Is Unjust, 79–​80. 78. On this danger in a post-​9/​11 context, see Serene Jones, “Emmaus Witnessing: Trauma and the Disordering of the Theological Imagination,” Union Seminary Quarterly Review 5, nos. 3–​4 (2001): 123. 79. This is one of the reasons why some interpreters of the just war have suggested that jus post bellum (justice in the ending of a war) is another area that bears on the overall justice (or injustice) of a military endeavor. 80. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 114. Biggar gives a different account, one where the individual soldier has significantly more responsibility. See In Defence of War, chap. 5. 81. Cornelius Plantinga Jr., Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be: A Breviary of Sin (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 20–​21, with pacifist Christians serving as one of his examples. 82. For an analysis of the moral tensions involved in the ad bellum side of conscientious objection, see Johnson, Can Modern War Be Just, 154–​64.

260 Notes 83. Johnson notes that conscientious objection asks others to bear a greater share of the burden of a nation’s defense, so it is necessary for care to be taken to discern that claims of conscience are authentic (Can Modern War Be Just, 159–​64). 84. Quoted in Brock and Lettini, Soul Repair, 65. 85. See Biggar, In Defence of War, 196. 86. See Johnson, Can Modern War Be Just, 162–​64. On the question of selective objection in classic just war thinkers, see LeRoy Walters, “A Historical Perspective on Selective Conscientious Objection,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 41, no. 2 (June 1973): 201–​11. 87. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, xxi; cf. p. 31. 88. On the issue of trust, see Yoder, Christian Attitudes, 79–​80. 89. Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the Sentences: Book IV, Distinctions 43–​50, trans. Beth Mortensen, Peter Kwasniewski, and Dylan Schrader, Latin/​English Edition of the Works of St. Thomas Aquinas 10 (Green Bay, WI: Aquinas Institute, 2018), dist. 49, q. 5, art. 3, quaest. 2, reply to obj. 11. 90. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 38–​39. 91. Ramsey, War and Christian Conscience, 32–​33. 92. See the transcript of Churchill’s telegram D.83/​5 (from March 28, 1945) to General Hastings Ismay: http://​nationalarchives.gov.uk/​education/​heroesvillains/​transcript/​g1cs3s3t.htm (accessed March 22, 2019). 93. The fundamental tension in just war thinking between, on the one hand, the dangers of aggression and thus the need to defeat it, and, on the other hand, the rules for just fighting, is captured well by Walzer. It is for the most part missed by critics like Meagher. When Meagher states that “fair play” drops out of actual fighting due to the pressure to win (Killing from the Inside Out, 132), he ignores the reason for the importance of winning according to just war thinking—​certain forms of injustice and aggression are tyrannical to human life. 94. See Brock and Lettini, Soul Repair, xvii, 34, 109. 95. Also see Johnson, Can Modern War Be Just, 164–​72. 96. On this caveat in Augustine, see Louis J. Swift, “Augustine on War and Killing: Another View,” Harvard Theological Review 66 (1973): 369–​83. 97. Tick, “Military Service,” in WMI, 307–​8. 98. See Johnson, Can Modern War Be Just, 168–​69. 99. Kilner, “Leadership,” in WMI, 99. 100. Kilner, “Leadership,” 99–​100. 101. We must also consider the likelihood that he wouldn’t, at that very moment, be fighting for a clear purpose, but had entered a solely tactical mindset where the immediate demands of the mission become all-​consuming. 102. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 36–​37. 103. Ramsey, War and the Christian Conscience, 40–​41; cf. 44–​45, 54. 104. Biggar, In Defence of War, 78–​90. 105. Luther, for example, draws a close comparison between the two as different manifestations of the “sword” of temporal authority. See “Whether Soldiers, Too, Can Be Saved,” 98.

Notes  261 106. On the history and the theory, see Biggar, In Defence of War, 162, 168. 107. Joe Sexton, “‘I Don’t Want to Shoot You, Brother,’” ProPublica, November 29, 2018, https://​features.propublica.org/​weirton/​police-​shooting-​lethal-​force-​cop-​fired-​ west-​virginia/​. 108. This may be the case. However, the renaissance of a more rigorous form of just war reasoning over the past sixty years, both among ethicists and within the Western military establishment, shows that the situation is complex, especially since those six decades also parallel significant trends of secularization in the West. On that recovery, see Johnson, Ethics, 1–​3, 15. 109. Indeed, we would do well to consider the late eighteenth-​century observation of Georg Friedrich von Martens: “The traditional doctrine of just war is essentially religious; where its religious spirit evaporates, only a shallow and stale residue remains.” Quoted in Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 127. Cf. Frame, “Moral Injury,” in WMI, 194–​95. 110. This is usually expressed as a matter of rendering war as humane as possible. See, for example, Tick, “Military Service,” in WMI, 312. 111. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 323–​25. 112. See Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 834–​37. 113. Here we may think of the sarcastic line from the Renaissance pacifist Erasmus: “It is not enough for war to be permitted between Christians; it must also be accorded the supreme honor.” Quoted in Meagher, Killing from the Inside Out, 123. 114. See Bethge, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 236–​37, 795. 115. Given that the purpose of the American criminal justice system has been mainly punishment, the push for “restorative justice” in recent decades is an attempt to push the scales of justice back toward correction and rehabilitation. One of the fathers of the American restorative justice movement, however, reminds us that restorative and retributive justice are not mutually exclusive. Howard Zehr, The Little Book of Restorative Justice (Intercourse, PA: Good Books, 2002), 12–​13, 58–​59. 116. Walzer, Just and Unjust Wars, 323–​25. 117. Levine, “Legal War,” in WMI, 230. 118. Cited by Kalantzis, Caesar and the Lamb, 200–​201. 119. Meagher accuses Basil of speaking out of both sides of his mouth: soldiers “are encouraged to enlist and go off to war with a clear conscience, marching behind the standard of Christ with courage and resolve, but at the same time to realize that their shedding of blood, while not sinful, renders them unclean and thus unworthy to approach the altar of the same Lord who led them into battle” (Killing from the Inside Out, 85). 120. See Althaus, Ethics of Martin Luther, 74. 121. For a discussion of penance or purification that focuses on the wounds that soldiers have sustained rather than guilt that they have incurred, see Brock and Lettini, Soul Repair, xviii. One of the veterans they profile in their book is Colonel Herman Keiser (an acquaintance of mine prior to his death in 2017). They speak of his practice, as a chaplain in Vietnam, of offering Communion to the US soldiers to which he was ministering and how God used it for their moral and spiritual healing even in the

262 Notes midst of their fighting (25, 81). Such an approach contrasts greatly with Basil’s, a contrast whose full unpacking would take us deep into the theological meaning of the Eucharist. 122. See Biggar, In Defence of War, 102.

Epilogue 1. See Terence E. Fretheim, “Is Genesis 3 a Fall Story?,” Word & World 14, no. 2 (1994): 144–​53. The Fraternidad Teológica Latinoamericana has stated that “the basic problem of violence, whether it be individual or social or structural, is found in the Adamic desire for self-​justification” (“Lima Declaration,” 186). 2. Augustine, City of God, bk. 4.4. 3. An additional absurdity is that war operates according to a “might makes right” logic. Yet the “winning” of a war is itself no proof of the justice of the winning side’s cause. Even using “overwhelming force” in a merciful attempt to shorten a conflict and end it with least loss of life says nothing about the cause motivating that force. 4. On the process of the “militarizing” of American police forces, see “How America’s Police Became So Heavily Armed,” The Economist, blog, May 18, 2015, http://​www. economist.com/​blogs/​economist-​explains/​2015/​05/​economist-​explains-​22. 5. Rowan Williams, “Making Moral Decisions,” in The Cambridge Companion to Christian Ethics, ed. Robin Gill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 11–​14.

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Index For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages.   Abu Ghraib, 179–​80, 181–​82 Betz, Hans Dieter, 105 Achebe, Chinua, 90–​91 Beza, Theodore, 87–​88, 91–​93, 239n.116 adiaphora, 119–​21 Biggar, Nigel, 60, 62, 63–​64, 115, 118, 138–​ Afghanistan, 18, 144, 179–​80, 192–​93, 199 39, 172, 177–​79, 198 Agathonice, 137 Blandina, 110–​11 aggression, 49–​50, 55–​56, 57, 59, 62, 63–​ Bonhoeffer, Dietrich, 10, 11–​12, 31–​32, 64, 91, 92–​93, 94, 100–​2, 104, 118, 66–​67, 77, 125–​33, 134–​36, 145–​47, 124–​25, 145–​47, 150–​51, 165–​66, 155–​56, 161, 163–​64, 169–​70, 172, 173, 182, 186–​88, 198–​99, 211 173, 174–​77, 180–​81, 201–​3, 208–​10, Allison, Dale C., 105–​6 247n.12 Ambrose of Milan, 51–​52, 64, 145 Boniface, 52–​54, 139–​40 Anabaptism, 2–​3, 22, 23, 29–​40, 42, 43–​45, Bowden, Mark, 180–​81 57–​58, 60, 62, 73, 86, 117, 135–​ Brock, Rita Nakashima, 143–​44 36, 160–​61   Apollonius, 2–​3 calling, 136–​42, 150–​51, 249n.57 Aquinas, Thomas, 17–​18, 22, 56–​57, Protestant understanding, 138–​39, 141–​ 58, 93–​94, 140–​42, 177–​78, 192–​ 42, 153, 161–​62, 201 93, 196–​98 traditional Catholic notion, 137–​38, Arendt, Hannah, 103 140–​42, 152–​53 asceticism, 9–​10, 72–​73, 75–​76, 153–​54 Calvin, John, 81–​82, 87, 142, 152–​53, 155–​ Asch, Ronald G., 83, 84 56, 250n.80 Augsburg Confession, 57–​58 Cameron, Euan, 152–​53 Augustine, 5, 51–​57, 58, 62–​64, 92, 93–​94, canonization of saints, 5, 11, 12, 13–​14, 17, 116–​17, 123–​24, 134, 139–​40, 145, 65–​66, 77, 81–​82, 151–​52, 154–​55, 147, 149–​50, 172, 177–​78, 185, 190–​ 253n.133 91, 197–​98, 211, 225n.71 Carpus, 137   charity. See love Bainton, Roland H., 51 Chauncy, Maurice, 80–​81 baptism, 33–​34, 37, 71–​72 Christendom, 22, 29, 33–​34, 47, 51, 54, Barrera, Ernesto, 15–​17, 65–​67, 68, 73, 203 68–​69, 71, 72–​77, 88–​89, 91–​92, 118, Barth, Karl, 113–​14, 136–​38, 216n.10 119, 219–​20n.2 Basil of Caesarea, 206–​7 Christianity, magisterial, 22, 27–​30, 32–​33, Bayfield, Richard, 79–​80 34, 44, 45, 46, 54, 55–​56, 57–​58, 66–​ Becket, Thomas à, Archbishop (of 67, 71–​73, 75, 81–​82, 87–​88, 96–​97, Canterbury), 76–​77, 78–​79 101, 118, 120–​21, 124–​25, 132–​33, Benderman, Kevin, 189–​90 135–​36, 139–​40, 145–​47, 159, 200–​ Bernard of Clairveaux, 68–​69, 75–​ 1, 206–​7 76, 94–​95 Churchill, Winston, 194

276 Index Cicero, 49–​50, 55–​56, 57 Circumcelliones, 229n.39 citizens. See society Civil War, American, 69, 94, 104 Civil War, English, 82–​83 Clement of Alexandria, 217n.18, 219n.56 Coates, Ta-​Nehisi, 251n.90 Coligny, Gaspard de, 84–​86 colonialism, 88–​91 confessor, 13–​14, 39, 71, 74–​75, 188–​90, 191–​92, 195, 200, 203 conscientious objection, 65, 92, 131, 189–​92 Constantine-​Cyril, Patriarch, 17–​18 Constantine, Emperor, 22, 27–​28, 34, 38–​ 39, 47, 51, 71–​72, 87–​88, 119 corrections officers, 139, 204–​5 Cranmer, Thomas, 157, 158 Crespin, Jean, 84–​85, 153 crime, 98–​99, 101–​2, 104, 121, 123–​ 24, 211–​12 Cromwell, Thomas, 80–​83 cross, 15–​16, 19–​20, 30–​31, 35, 40–​41, 64, 78–​79, 109, 110–​13, 114–​15, 156, 160–​61, 200–​1, 209–​10, 251n.86 Crouzet, Denis, 83 Crusades, 18, 68–​69, 74–​75, 91–​94, 96–​ 97, 147 Cunningham, Lawrence S., 151–​52, 153–​ 54, 208–​9 Cyprian, 78   Demosthenes, 8 Diocletian, emperor, 46–​47 Dionysius of Alexandria, 78 discipleship, 2–​6, 12, 15, 17, 19–​21, 23–​24, 25, 26, 30–​32, 33, 35, 37–​38, 39–​42, 43, 44, 46, 54, 63, 64, 75–​76, 108–​15, 118, 121, 134, 150–​51, 153, 155, 156, 159, 160–​62, 183–​84, 203, 204–​5, 208–​10, 213 Donatist controversy, 33–​34, 51–​54 Doncoeur, Paul, 73–​74 double effect, 64, 197–​98, 259n.68 Douillet, Jacques, 74–​75, 78 duellum, 56–​57, 185–​86   Eastern Orthodoxy, 22, 93–​94, 147, 231n.70 El Salvador, 2–​3, 10, 15–​17, 65–​67, 154–​ 55, 242n.14

Elford, R. John, 120–​21 Ellacuría, Ignacio, 241–​42n.12 Elliot, Elisabeth, 255n.1 Ellul, Jacques, 32, 103 Elshtain, Jean Bethke, 94, 171–​72, 173, 177–​78, 180–​81, 182, 230n.59 Endo, Shusaku, 89–​90, 112–​13, 203 Enlightenment, 69, 161–​62, 230n.49 Erdozaín, Plácido, 15–​17, 65–​66 eschatology, 110, 113, 118, 122, 130, 141–​42, 145–​47, 159, 160–​61, 173, 176–​78, 200–​1 ethics consequentialist/​utilitarian, 31–​32, 57, 103, 163, 165–​66, 177, 182–​ 83, 195–​96 contextual, 5, 128–​30, 131, 132–​33, 134, 163–​64, 174–​78 deontological, 57, 128–​30, 131, 133, 163, 164, 165–​67, 174–​78 divine command, 40, 48, 59, 63, 115–​ 16, 121 Eusebius of Caesarea, 26–​28, 38–​39 evil, 24, 53, 66–​67, 113, 116, 118, 122, 124–​ 25, 129, 132–​33, 141–​42, 155–​56, 159, 182–​83, 231n.65, 241n.6 exemplarity, 19–​20, 39–​40, 46, 151, 153–​ 56, 157, 158, 161, 208–​10   Fletcher, Joseph F., 163 forgiveness, 113–​14, 118, 124, 127–​28, 129–​30, 132–​33, 135, 159, 163–​64, 173, 174, 202–​3 Foxe, John, 1, 79–​81, 82–​83, 84–​85, 117, 153, 225–​26n.80 Frame, Tom, 143–​44 Francis, Pope, 11 Frith, John, 79–​80 Fructuosus, 110–​11, 137 Fulford, Andrew A., 220n.4 Furnish, Victor Paul, 116   Gandhi, Mahatma, 7, 31–​32 Gerrits, Jan, 36–​37, 161 God depiction in the biblical text, 48, 59–​ 60, 115–​17 divine violence, 115–​17, 225n.77 Goulart, Simon, 84–​85, 86

Index  277 government. See “sword” Grande, Rutilio, 16–​17 Gratian, 56 Grebel, Conrad, 29, 35 Green, Clifford, 131, 175, 248n.43 Gregory XIII, Pope, 84 Gregory, Brad S., 225n.71 Grotius, 93–​94 Grünewald, Matthias, 8 guilt, 121, 124, 127–​28, 129–​30, 132–​33, 135, 143, 145, 148, 149–​50, 205–​8   Hare, Douglas R. A., 105–​8 Harpsfield, Nicholas, 78–​79 Harris, Arthur, 202 Hauerwas, Stanley, 31–​32, 219–​20n.2 Hays, Richard, 23–​25, 40, 41–​42, 64, 108, 115, 119, 242–​43n.22 Helvetic Confession, Second, 57–​58 Henry II, King, 76 Henry IV, King, 76–​77 Henry VIII, King, 78, 79, 80–​81 heresy, 33–​34, 52–​54, 55–​56, 62, 73–​74, 79–​80, 123 Hitler, Adolf. See Nazism Hobbes, Thomas, 171 holiness. See sanctity Holmes, Robert, 232–​33n.87 Holocaust, 18 holy war, 17–​18, 24, 30–​31, 42, 48, 52–​53, 59, 68–​69, 75, 82–​83, 88, 91–​95, 96, 115–​16, 147 Huguenots, 84–​86   idealism, ethical, 171–​72, 190–​91, 257n.40 idolatry, 25–​26, 27–​29, 46–​47, 50, 70–​71, 90–​91, 152–​53 imitatio Christi, 39–​42, 53–​54, 108–​15, 117, 122 Iraq War, 144, 148–​49, 195–​96, 197, 211–​12 Irving, John, 7 Israel, biblical, 41–​42, 48, 115–​16, 136, 163   James, William, 153–​54 Jenkins, Philip, 69 Jesus Christ, 1–​2, 4, 5–​6, 8–​10, 11–​13, 15–​16, 19–​20, 21, 23–​24, 29–​31, 32, 36–​37, 39–​42, 43–​44, 46, 47, 53–​54,

56–​57, 63, 64, 75–​76, 82, 87, 96–​97, 104–​15, 116–​19, 120–​21, 122, 123–​ 24, 126–​28, 129–​30, 132–​33, 135–​ 36, 140–​41, 147–​48, 156, 157–​58, 160–​61, 176, 183, 184–​85, 189–​90, 196–​97, 200–​1, 203, 204–​5, 220n.4, 254n.150 Joan of Arc, 73–​75 Johnson, James Turner, 28–​29, 47, 51, 63–​ 64, 69, 93–​94, 165–​66, 172, 177–​78, 186–​87, 216n.11, 231n.67, 232n.75, 233n.90, 241n.9, 251n.87, 255–​56n.8, 256–​57n.20 Julian (the Apostate), Emperor, 72 Julius the Veteran, 46–​47, 50, 70, 72–​73 just cause, 49–​50, 55–​58, 147, 148–​49, 165–​66, 186–​87, 188–​89, 190–​91, 194, 197 jus post bellum, 232n.79, 259n.79 just war tradition, 4, 19, 21, 49–​58, 145, 149–​50, 158–​59, 212–​13, 216n.11 in distinction from holy war, 18, 48, 52–​53, 69, 75, 88, 91–​95, 96, 116, 147, 230n.49 jus ad bellum, 57–​58, 63–​64, 65, 165–​ 66, 170–​71, 174, 185–​93, 198–​99, 232n.75, 232n.78 jus in bello, 57–​58, 63–​64, 65, 165–​71, 174, 190–​91, 194–​99, 201–​3, 232n.78 justice, 4–​5, 10–​13, 17, 20, 39, 48, 50–​51, 54–​57, 59, 63–​64, 69, 75, 94–​95, 100, 101–​2, 118, 123–​25, 135–​36, 142–​43, 147–​48, 166, 169–​70, 176–​79, 185, 190–​91, 196–​98, 211, 241n.11 restorative justice, 261n.115   Kalantzis, George, 50 Kant, Immanuel, 129–​30, 175 Kelley, Donald R., 84–​86 Kempis, Thomas à, 41 Kieckhefer, Richard, 154 Kilner, Pete, 144, 148–​49, 195–​96, 197 King Jr., Martin Luther, 10, 11–​12, 15, 18, 19, 31–​32, 39, 43, 103, 208–​9 Kingdon, Robert M., 85–​86, 239n.116 Koenigsberger, H. S., 86 Kolbe, Maximilian, 13–​14, 15, 17–​18 Komaryczko, Roman, 13–​14 Kudo, Timothy, 144, 145–​47 

278 Index lament, 5, 53–​55, 123, 124, 147, 148–​50, 190, 207 last resort, 49–​50, 57–​58, 65, 107, 129, 132, 134, 175, 186–​88, 193, 194, 204–​5 law enforcement. See policing law of retaliation, 105–​6 legitimate sovereign, 55, 56–​57, 100–​1, 165–​66, 170–​71, 185–​88, 234n.108, 242n.15 Lettini, Gabriella, 143–​44 Levine, Sean, 147, 148, 206 lex talionis. See law of retaliation Louis IX, King, 74–​75, 76, 78 love, 4, 19–​20, 23, 28–​29, 31–​32, 37, 42, 43, 45, 46, 52–​53, 54–​57, 63–​64, 92, 93, 107–​8, 118, 123–​24, 131–​32, 135–​36, 138–​39, 141–​42, 143–​44, 147–​48, 159, 164–​65, 177–​78, 184–​85, 187–​ 88, 190–​91, 192, 196–​98, 200–​1, 202, 209, 210, 212–​13, 255–​56n.8 Luther, Martin, 81–​82, 91–​94, 96–​97, 138–​ 40, 147, 152–​53, 195, 207, 231n.70 Lysius, 8   McGuckin, John, 206–​7 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 171 Mader, Stephen, 199–​200, 205–​6 Mahedy, William, 145, 147–​48 Marcellus, 70, 72–​73 Marinus, 26–​28, 37–​38, 46, 54, 70, 73, 203 Marsh, George, 117 Martin of Tours, 71–​73, 203 martyrdom criteria of, 6, 11–​12, 20–​21, 32, 33, 35, 37, 38–​39, 41, 42–​45, 46, 89, 91, 96–​ 97, 156–​59, 183–​203, 204–​5, 219n.54 in early church, 26–​28, 37–​38, 46–​47, 70–​71, 86, 87, 91 function of, 2–​3, 19–​20, 21, 65–​67, 82, 97, 135–​36, 153–​54, 160–​62, 183, 208–​10 in Reformation, 32–​39, 46, 78–​87, 117, 209–​10 terminology, 7, 8–​10, 16–​17, 216n.6, 217n.13, 217–​18n.26 title of, 1–​3, 11–​12, 18–​19, 65–​66, 68, 77, 83–​84, 183 types of, 10–​16, 17, 20, 185, 196–​97

martyrology, 3, 26–​27, 32–​33, 68, 70, 80, 86, 109–​10 Martyrs’ Mirror, 32–​39, 46, 111, 117 Martyrs of Lyons, 9–​10, 157, 158 Mary I, Queen, 1, 117 Maximilian, 70–​71, 72–​73 Meagher, Robert Emmet, 64–​65, 144–​ 49, 215n.9 Mennonite tradition, 32–​33, 222n.24 Middleton, Paul, 14–​15 military. See soldiers Miller, Glen, 148–​49 Miller, Gregory J., 91–​93 Miller, William Robert, 39 missionaries, 88–​91 Mission, The (film), 192–​93 monasticism, 9–​10, 29, 51, 71–​72, 75–​ 76, 137–​38 Montanus, 111 moral injury, 143–​51, 194–​95, 197, 206, 207 More, Thomas, 78–​82, 203 Mornin, Edward and Lorna, 74–​75 Morrill, John, 82–​83 Morris, Colin, 68–​69 Mukasa, Joseph, 90, 91 Müntzer, Thomas, 29   Nation, Mark Thiessen, 131 natural law, 30–​31, 49–​50, 58, 63–​64, 177–​ 78, 255–​56n.8 Nazism, 31–​32, 66–​67, 104, 124, 130–​31, 145–​47, 168–​69, 187–​88, 201, 212, 242–​43n.22 necessity, 32, 132, 134, 145–​47, 164–​71, 172, 174, 175, 178–​80, 182–​83, 186, 199–​200, 201, 202–​3, 257n.35 Neto. See Barrera, Ernesto Niebuhr, H. Richard, 163, 164, 172 Niebuhr, Reinhold, 23–​24, 62, 120, 123–​ 25, 134–​36, 147–​48, 163, 172, 180 noncombatant immunity, 57, 63–​64, 69, 92, 134, 148–​49, 165–​71, 172, 174, 177–​79, 182, 194–​97, 201–​3 nonviolence. See pacifism   Obama, Barack, 134 odium fidei, 13–​14, 15, 218n.37

Index  279 Origen, 28–​29 Ottoman Empire, 18, 91–​93   pacifism, 4–​5, 21, 22, 23–​24, 48, 96–​97, 105, 108–​9, 119–​21, 145–​47, 160–​61, 171, 178, 189–​91, 212–​13, 233n.90 pacifism, early church, 25–​29, 50, 51, 96–​97, 221nn.13–​14, 222n.34, 229n.29 pacifism, modern, 30–​32, 62, 65, 103, 130–​31 pacifism, Reformation, 29–​30, 34–​ 37, 46, 62 Paul, apostle, 8–​9, 24, 30–​31, 40–​41, 53–​ 54, 59–​60, 61, 116 peace in pacis, 57, 166–​67, 170–​71, 197, 201–​2 as proper end of war, 48, 49–​50, 55, 58, 64, 94, 100, 101–​2, 118, 124–​25, 162, 165–​66, 173, 177–​78, 184, 185–​86, 188, 230n.59 peace church traditions. See Anabaptism penance, 124–​25, 206–​7, 247n.11, 261n.119, 261–​62n.121 Perpetua and Felicitas, 1, 15, 19, 37–​38, 74–​75, 78, 90 persecution, 1–​2, 9–​10, 25–​26, 32–​33, 46–​47, 52–​53, 57–​58, 73–​74, 77, 78, 79–​82, 87–​88, 89–​91, 92–​93, 107–​8, 109, 111, 117, 157, 217n.12, 217n.20, 219n.56 Philips, Dirk, 29–​30, 35 Piroyansky, Danna, 76–​77 Plantinga Jr., Cornelius, 189–​90 Plato, 8, 49–​50, 55–​56, 57 Ployd, Adam, 225n.71 policing, 18, 21, 30–​31, 100–​2, 104, 105–​6, 121, 131–​33, 139–​40, 142–​43, 148–​ 49, 164–​65, 180–​82, 183, 187–​88, 198–​200, 204, 205–​6, 207, 211–​12, 222n.24 police brutality, 142–​43, 182, 205–​6 Polycarp of Smyrna, 1, 9, 13, 15, 90, 109–​10 Praet, Claes de, 36–​37 priesthood, 16–​17, 66–​67, 72–​73, 137–​38, 140–​41, 235n.30

principles, 126–​27, 128–​30, 132–​33, 135–​ 36, 163–​64, 172–​83, 193, 200–​1 prison guards. See corrections officers prisoners of war, 24, 48, 107–​8, 194, 195–​97 Pryer, Douglas A., 148–​49 Puritans, 82–​83   racism, 10, 31–​32, 99–​100, 101–​2, 205–​6, 239n.119, 241n.5, 242n.13 Radical Reformation. See Anabaptism Rahner, Karl, 12–​16, 17–​18, 19–​20, 22, 69, 82–​83, 153–​54, 192–​93 Ramsey, Paul, 51–​52, 54–​56, 63–​64, 172, 177–​78, 185, 188–​89, 190–​91, 194, 197–​98, 255–​56n.8 realism, ethical, 5, 62, 113, 122–​36, 139, 141–​42, 144, 145, 149–​50, 155–​56, 162–​64, 170–​74, 176–​78, 228n.18 realism, cynical, 5, 171–​73, 177, 178, 185, 188, 190–​91, 193, 200–​1 realism, principled, 172–​83, 190–​91, 193, 200–​1, 204, 246n.1 realpolitik. See realism, cynical religious war. See holy war resurrection, 9, 15–​16, 19–​20, 39, 40–​41, 110, 111–​12, 113–​15, 118, 135, 156, 160–​61, 184, 200–​1, 212–​13 revolution, 15–​17, 29, 65–​66, 76–​77, 87–​88, 101–​2, 106–​7, 121, 135, 234nn.108–​9, 241–​42n.12, 242n.15 right intention, 49–​50, 53, 55–​57, 64, 65–​ 66, 103, 143, 144–​45, 165–​66, 186–​ 87, 188–​89, 190, 198, 203, 231n.67, 241n.4, 251n.87, 256–​57n.20 Robinson, Marilynn, 81–​82 Rogers, John, 1, 15, 19, 82 Roman Empire, 1, 9–​10, 14–​15, 22, 25–​28, 33–​34, 46–​47, 49–​50, 51, 61, 70–​73, 90–​91, 106–​7 Romero, Óscar, 2–​3, 10, 11, 12–​13, 15–​18, 19–​20, 65–​67, 111, 154–​55, 157, 158, 192–​93, 203, 234n.108 Rosario Rodríguez, Rubén, 215–​16n.10, 227n.109, 246n.82, 250n.77 Roth, John D., 157, 226n.90 

280 Index St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, 84–​87, 88 sainthood, 1–​2, 5, 19–​20, 41–​42, 71, 73, 75, 137–​38, 151–​56, 208–​10 and the miraculous, 75, 151–​52, 154–​ 56, 208–​9 traditional Catholic understanding, 17, 20, 66–​67, 151–​52, 158–​59 traditional Protestant understanding, 20, 66–​67, 142, 152–​54, 155–​56, 158–​59, 201 sanctification, 114, 142, 150–​51, 152–​ 53, 158 sanctity, 66–​67, 73–​74, 150–​56 Saving Private Ryan (film), 195–​98, 201–​ 2, 203 Schut, John, 117 Schuurman, Douglas J., 136–​37, 138 Scrope, Richard, Archbishop (of York), 76–​77 self-​defense, 4, 21, 56–​57, 58, 92, 162, 197–​ 98, 233n.96 September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, 18, 94, 134, 179–​80, 211–​12 Sermon on the Mount, 23–​24, 25–​26, 28–​30, 31–​32, 35–​37, 40, 42, 43, 46, 50, 53, 56–​57, 58, 63, 64, 72–​73, 96–​ 97, 105–​8, 118–​19, 123–​24, 130–​31, 243n.26 Severus, Sulpicius, 71–​73 Sexton, Joe, 199–​200 Shakespeare, William, 110, 179–​80 Siegrist, Anthony G., 131 Simons, Menno, 29–​30, 35 sin, 5, 10, 39, 54–​57, 62, 81–​82, 97, 110, 113, 116–​17, 118, 119, 122, 123, 130, 134, 141–​42, 145–​48, 164, 173, 177–​ 78, 189–​90, 211, 218n.29, 249n.55 structural sin, 10, 15–​16, 97–​98, 101–​2, 124–​25, 134, 143, 147–​48, 162, 211, 251n.90 Sobrino, Jon, 2–​3, 11–​12, 111, 154–​55 society, 139, 142–​43, 149–​50, 158–​59, 185–​86, 187, 204–​8 Socrates, 7, 49 soldiers, 4–​6, 17–​19, 25–​28, 47, 53, 55, 65, 68–​73, 82–​83, 86, 92, 115, 124–​25, 132–​33, 139–​40, 141–​51, 158–​59, 166–​68, 184, 188–​93, 194–​99, 202–​3 as synecdoche, 21, 78, 97, 204–​8

Stoicism, 49–​50 Stout, Harry S., 69 “supreme emergency,” 168–​71, 178–​80, 182–​83, 194, 202, 206 “sword,” 6, 18, 21, 23, 25–​27, 34, 45, 46, 54, 56–​58, 59–​61, 69, 74–​75, 78, 79–​80, 81–​82, 97, 105–​6, 119, 121, 139, 140–​41, 142–​44, 145–​47, 148, 149, 150–​51, 156, 158–​59, 161–​62, 182–​83, 185, 200–​1, 204–​5, 208, 210, 222n.24   Taylor, Charles, 152–​53 Ten Boom, Corrie, 208–​9 terrorism, 18, 94, 134, 168–​69, 178–​82, 187–​88, 194, 202, 211–​12 Tertullian, 25–​27, 28–​29, 71, 72, 73 Theodosius I, Emperor, 72–​73 Tick, Edward, 148–​49, 195 torture, 179–​82 tragedy, in Christian ethics, 118, 122, 124–​25, 126, 127–​28, 130, 132–​33, 134–​35, 139–​40, 141–​42, 144–​45, 148–​49, 150, 155–​56, 173, 177–​78, 201, 202–​3, 208 tyrannicide, 135, 161, 175, 201 tyranny, 55, 62, 63, 87–​88, 161, 164–​ 65, 188   Umbel, Daniel P., 131 Urban II, Pope, 68   Van Braght, Thieleman, 32–​40 Verbeeck, Joos, 39–​40 Vietnam War, 39, 145, 148–​49, 195 violence, 15–​19, 31, 43, 211–​13 ambiguity of, 97–​100, 103–​4, 119–​20, 202–​3, 211–​13 defined, 97–​104 first-​order vs. second-​order, 101–​4, 107, 113, 115, 116–​17, 118–​19, 122, 124–​25, 130, 131–​33, 147, 150, 158–​59, 161, 162, 172, 177–​78, 182, 198–​200, 207–​8, 209–​10, 211, 212–​ 13, 241n.11 structural, 10, 97–​98, 99–​100, 101–​2, 241–​42n.12 Vitoria, Francisco de, 55–​56, 94 vocation. See calling 

Index  281 Waldensianism, 38–​39 Walters, LeRoy, 93–​94, 232n.77 Walzer, Michael, 57, 165–​70, 172, 173–​74, 177–​81, 182, 194, 202, 206, 232n.78, 255–​56n.8 war crimes, 144, 252n.97 wars of religion, European, 82–​88 Weaver-​Zercher, David, 39 Weigel, George, 187–​88 Wells, Samuel, 4–​5 Westminster Abbey, 10–​11, 14, 77 Westminster Confession of Faith, 57–​58

Willems, Dirk, 35–​36, 39–​40, 43, 82, 161 Williams, Rowan, 213 Williams, Tennessee, 7 Wink, Walter, 243n.26 Wolterstorff, Nicholas, 241n.11 Wood, John A., 48, 115–​16 World War I, 69, 94, 124 World War II, 18, 19, 124, 188, 194–​96, 201–​2 Wright, N. T., 41–​42, 110, 145–​47, 164   Yoder, John Howard, 30–​32, 65, 178–​79, 244n.40