Reinventing Mennonite identity: on accommodating to Reinhold Niebuhr

In a recently published collection of lectures entitled Christian Attitudes to War, Peace, and Revolution, John Howard Yoder observes the oddity that the major Mennonite identity crisis of the twentieth century is the consequence of accommodation to a professor of applied Christianity at Union Theological Seminary.  The professor, of course, is one of the major American Protestant theologians of the twentieth century, Reinhold Niebuhr. With the rise of Hitler, the liberal pacifist movement, so prominent after World War I, almost completely collapsed not least due to the stinging critiques launched by Niebuhr. If the threat of the Hitler regime pushed the liberal pacifist ethic to its limit, Niebuhr’s theological critique was just enough to push the movement over the edge. The remaining pacifists in America, found primarily now in the historic peace churches, were also forced to respond to the Niebuhrian challenge, but from a different angle. Niebuhr’s criticism of liberal pacifism questioned both the scriptural basis and the effectiveness of their position. According to Niebuhr, the Jesus of the New Testament teaches nonresistance as opposed to the type of strategic active nonviolence advocated by liberal pacifists. The problem with liberal pacifism, in Niebuhr’s view, is that it attempts to ground its absolutist position in an erroneous interpretation of the teachings of Jesus. Strategic active nonviolence is to be commended as a (sometimes) effective method of social change, but it is a form of coercion, a form of power that Jesus expressly rejects. Thus, liberal pacifists have no basis to attack non-pacifists. Pacifists of the Mennonite variety, however, in their simple obedience to Jesus’ teachings on nonresistance are at least biblically consistent, despite their social and political irrelevance. Niebuhr believed that Mennonites fulfill a particularly important vocation of the Christian church. By their social and political “withdrawal” Mennonites helpfully serve to remind the rest of the Christian church of the lofty ideals of Jesus. Yet, no matter how commendable, such an ethic of nonresistance can never serve as the basis of a Christian ethic that seeks to be responsible in the messy world of politics.

Niebuhr’s back-handed compliment to Mennonites in his critique against liberal pacifism helped to create a division in Mennonite theology along the lines of a dichotomy between withdrawal and responsibility. In response to the criticisms of Niebuhr many Mennonites felt compelled to distinguish themselves from the liberal pacifist position by accepting the role of pacifism as an apolitical socially irrelevant vocation that Niebuhr had created and commended. Yoder observes a strikingly similarity in the responses of the conservative Mennonite biblical scholar John R. Mumaw and the liberal Mennonite Donovan Smucker to the challenge of Niebuhr. In order to section themselves off from Niebuhr’s critique of liberal pacifism, both thinkers chose to accept the role given to them by Niebuhr: to become more fully that nonresistant sectarian withdrawing enclave of Niebuhr’s imagination, in the name of renouncing the type of pacifism that is concerned with effectiveness and responsibility. Yoder observes that more than anything Niebuhr’s impact served to reinforce “a Mennonite tendency to dualistic analysis…that says we cannot do anything in the wider world—because we want to be different from those pacifists who are naïve about the possibilities of the good” (297).  Such a position, however, did not stem from the history of  Mennonite faith, but was rather learned from Mennonite “accommodation to Reinhold Niebuhr.” In short, such a position was invented by “accepting the backhanded compliment that Niebuhr gave us when he said we are consistent but irrelevant” (298).

The Peace of Christ

One common misunderstanding of Christian pacifism is that it is essentially an idealist position to hold. Perhaps more than anyone else of twentieth century theology, the “Christian realist,” Reinhold Niebuhr, emphasized this point. Another common misunderstanding of Christian pacifism is that it is primarily committed to the absence of conflict and war for the sake of some sort of harmonious state of universal brotherhood. Both of these views fundamentally misunderstand the peace of which Christian pacifists speak. The peace of Christ does not mark the cessation of violence, but in fact exposes the violent character of our lives and the violence embedded in the heart of the society we have built here in the United States. In the gospel of John, Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you, not as the world gives do I give to you” (John 14:27). Rowan Williams observes that this passage suggests that “what is offered and the way it is offered are alike a challenge to the world’s peace” (The Truce of God 67). Contrary to popular interpretation, the Jesus of the gospel narratives is not a particularly “peaceful” figure, at least not in any ordinary sense of the word. In fact, his very presence often stirs up conflict and confrontation, not social harmony and universal brotherhood. The disciples don’t gather around the campfire to sing “Kumbaya,”and they certainly aren’t busy writing up worship songs that talk about how Jesus gives me a peace that makes me feel good inside. The story of Jesus is one of conflict, confrontation, judgment, betrayal, tears, torture, violence, and death. It is an utterly gruesome story and unpeaceful character of Jesus is at the center of it.

The peace of Christ exposes our vision of reality as a falsity, a hoax, an invention of our imagination. Thus, the mistake of Niebuhr is not his “realism,” but his inability to be called into question, to be judged by the real itself: the presence of the risen Christ. The peace of Christ is judgment on the world’s understanding of peace. As Williams puts it, “the price of our sitting down in harmony is the echoing discord of the crucifixion, the memory of the unpeaceful end of an unpeaceful life. Our peace is only authentic, it seems, when the world’s peace has been broken, exposed as false; when the passive consensus favoured by Caiaphas has been so upset that it brings out its latent violence against whatever disturbs it. Jesus’ peace can only happen when such a crisis has been provoked. His own uneasiness, unpeacefulness, is a kind of persistent questioning: just how much of the truth can the world bear without arming itself?” (The Truce of God 71).

A non-Constantinian understanding of witness

Because Christians confess that Jesus is lord of the whole cosmos, the church is called to share the gospel message as good news for the world. But because this good news involves a breaking of the cycle of violence that includes the renunciation of logistical effectiveness and possessive sovereignty, it can only be offered as a gift whose reception cannot be guaranteed or enforced. A non-Constantinian understanding of witness does not begin with a theory of universal validation through which the truth of the gospel message can then be justified to all people. Yoder maintains that this is just another manifestation of the Constantinian preoccupation with effectiveness in attempting to make history come out right. He is thus calling into question the sense in which the category of witness itself tends to be understood in terms of the violent logic of speed. Yoder’s genealogical analysis of Constantinianism suggests that such an apologetic conception of witness is only intelligible against the background of the presumption that humans are responsible for controlling the world. However, witness looks different from the standpoint of the non-Constantinian church’s hope that God is in control of history.

Chris Huebner, A Precarious Peace: Yoderian Explorations on Theology, Knowledge, and Identity (Scottdale, Pa: Herald Press, 2006) 130-131.

Reflections on the First Sunday of Advent: Beating Swords into Plowshares

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. One of the scripture readings for the day is Isaiah 2:1-5 which reads: 

2:1 The word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem.2:2 In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it.2:3 Many peoples shall come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.”    

For out of Zion shall go forth instruction, and the word of the LORD from Jerusalem.2:4 He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.2:5 O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the LORD!   

 

 As we begin Advent let us lift up our broken and war torn world to God in prayer. Let us remember your death at the hands of imperial power and find hope in your overcoming of death, the greatest evil.  The following image is of the side of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Sorry it is so small. For a larger version click here.

    

First Sunday of Advent, Year A: This beautifully detailed representation of the Isaiah passage for this Sunday depicts two metalsmiths. The one on the right has a large supply of swords that he has been breaking with a hammer; the broken swords fall on the floor. The smithy on the left picks up the broken pieces and works them into their new use in the forge, fed with air by the bellows on the far left.  (Description of image from Vanderbilt Library)

Those Who Found a Home at the Catholic Worker

In her book Loaves and Fishes, Dorothy Day tells the fascinating and inspiring story of the Catholic Worker movement. The Catholic Worker movement came out of Dorothy’s deep commitment to the poor. As a result of her radical form of Christian hospitality, her wonderful giving of everything she had for the outcast and the marginalized, she encountered many strange people. Indeed, to use the word, strange, seems to cast a negative light on the types of people who found themselves in Dorothy’s midst. This, however, is not what is intended by my use of the word. Instead, I use the word precisely because that is how the poor, the homeless, the others, are seen by the status quo. The word is perhaps more descriptive of those who came to “work” with Dorothy, because surely those who choose poverty are strange in the eyes of the world. This paper will discuss the lives of those people who came to the Catholic Worker, through the eyes of Dorothy Day. In chapters eleven through fifteen of Loaves and Fishes we are given a brief and invaluable glimpse into the world of the Catholic Worker movement and the reality “on the ground,” so to speak. In reading Dorothy’s reflections, it becomes evident that each person in their own special and unique way left a lasting impact on Dorothy and helped to shape that beautiful home of hospitality, the Catholic Worker movement.

In chapter eleven, “Spiritual Advisors,” Dorothy briefly shares how the Catholic Worker movement was received by the Roman Catholic churches in the area and the Church at large. Although there were surely some controversies about the radical nature of the Catholic Worker movement and especially their pacifism,1 Dorothy has fond memories of the clergy who sought relationship with her and the movement. She reflects, “Our connections with the particular members of the clergy have been very close and, I think, mutually rewarding” (124).

In this chapter Dorothy shares about her experience with Father Conrad Hauser, SJ., who intended to come for a day visit to Peter Maurin Farm and ended up staying for two months. As Dorothy remembers, “The morning he arrived was bright and sunny, and Father Hauser fell in love with the place” (124). Father Hauser had been a missionary in China and in Haiti, but had been kicked out of both places. He had read the Catholic Worker paper as a missionary and so felt compelled to stop in while on a visit to New York. It did not take long before Father Hauser had decided to stay with the Catholic Worker for Lent. Dorothy recalls, “After a lifetime of obedience, and without having asked permission of his superiors, he suddenly announced that he would remain at the farm and say Mass for us each day” (125). After hearing of his death a couple months later, she reflects, “It was almost as though when he came to us he knew that his time on earth was drawing to a close and so gave that last gift of himself as a missionary to our group- a precious gift indeed” (126).

Among all the priests that Dorothy encountered in the Catholic Worker movement, the one who particularly “stands out” is Father Pacifique Roy. Before coming to the Catholic Worker Father Roy had worked and lived among the poor in the South. Dorothy remembers how upon his first entrance into the back kitchen of the Catholic Worker house on Mott Street, Father Roy said that he “felt immediately at home” (128). The first morning he arrived he talked and talked and “work was put aside as people gathered around to listen to him” (128). Father Roy took a similar approach to addressing the pressing issues of the day in that “where ever he was, he set out at once to better conditions” (128).

For many years Father Roy was stationed in Baltimore, but would come visit the Catholic Worker on the weekends and run conferences and retreats. Eventually, in 1945, Father Roy got permission to live and work with the Catholic Worker movement at Maryfarm. When he arrived he immediately set out to work; he set up electricity and dug ditches so that water could be brought down to the barn. Father Roy was not only an excellent and diligent manual worker, he also considered saying the daily Mass the most important work of the day. So, he put much effort into making worship “as beautiful as possible”(130). After a trip to the South, Father Roy made some mistakes while saying Mass, which alarmed Dorothy and the others. One of the men from the Catholic Worker brought him to his sister’s home in Montreal and later Dorothy heard that Father Roy had ended up in a mental hospital after he was found in a small Quebec town living with a priest and serving as an altar boy. On a visit to see him in the hospital, Dorothy had a profound and powerful experience with him. He had lost much of his memory, but still remembered her. He showed her the bruises that he had gotten from another patient and told her how one of his nurses called him a dirty pig for wetting the bed. Dorothy remembers how he began to weep like a child and said, “Rejoice.” In response she began to cry as well.

As is well evident from the stories she shares, Dorothy’s experience with these priests had a profound impact on her life. Father Hauser had been an outcast during his other assignments, but among Dorothy and the Catholic Worker he had found a home. Father Roy came to serve and really seemed to sort of take over the Catholic Worker. He was extremely capable in matters of spirituality and certainly his manual labor was a big help to the community at Maryfarm. He had, however, most literally become one of the poor, the wandering, the sick, those for whom Christ had come and those for whom Father Roy had spent his whole life serving.

In chapter twelve Dorothy stops to reflect on all the people who have come to the Catholic Worker looking for something, but why do they come? They come “for a variety of reasons: some come to live their ideals; some come because they are just out of high school and college and are trying to find themselves; some come seeking excitement and adventure because they can no longer stand the monotony of their jobs”(136). Concerning why people leave, Dorothy says, “The reasons for leaving are as diverse as the reasons which prompt them to come”(136). When the question was posed to Stanley one of the Workers, he responded by saying, “They come with a shopping bag and go with trunks, not to speak of all the books lifted out of the library” (137). Or, from another worker, “They come with stars in their eyes and leave with curses on their lips”(137). Someone else explained that “people come because they need group therapy. Every malcontent Catholic sooner or later ends up at The Catholic Worker. There they seem themselves in everyone else, and cure themselves” (137). For all of these reasons and probably much more, people show up on the doorstep of the Catholic Worker to work with Dorothy and to live with the poor of New York City.

In these chapters Dorothy shares about all the people that she remembers walking through the doors of the Catholic Worker looking to work, or to visit, or for a place to stay and some food. The Catholic Worker had a range of people come, from academics and intellectuals to poor and hungry people looking for a place to sleep for a night, or for a year. Indeed, the Catholic Worker became more than just a radical newspaper, more than a home of hospitality, more than a mere movement among others. The Catholic Worker became a community of people coming together from all different backgrounds. To say it was a community is not to idealize the movement. To be sure, Dorothy speaks very openly and clearly of all the interpersonal struggles that people had to deal with in order to work and live together. However, it certainly was a community despite all the strengths and weaknesses of its members. Each person that found themselves at the Catholic Worker made some impact on the movement and evidently, after reading all the stories from Dorothy, these people had a profound effect on her. She developed very deep relationships with people precisely because they lived and worked daily with her to meet the basic needs of people. As with any movement people come and go, and it is clear that this was difficult for Dorothy, because she would lose contact with people and thereby lose relationships that were important to her. The personal relationships that Dorothy built with so many people are the direct corollary of a mission founded on the belief that direct and personal action is the most appropriate and faithful response to the ills of society.

Andrew Bacevich on Exiting Iraq

In the latest edition of Commonweal Andrew Bacevich and Matthew Shadle discuss whether or not the United States should withdraw from Iraq.
Bacevich is professor of international relations at Brown University. His latest book is The New American Militarism: How Americans are Seduced by War. Shadle is instructor of religious studies at Loras College in Dubuque, Iowa. In their debate, Bacevich responds to Shadle’s argument that the United States must keep fighting in Iraq. He states,

“There’s no doubt about it: A nation that embarks on a morally problematic war incurs stiff obligations. The war begun in March 2003 when the United States needlessly and recklessly chose to invade Iraq offers a case in point. On that score Matthew Shadle and I are in full agreement. But to suggest that the only way to acquit those obligations is to go on fighting constitutes a failure of moral imagination.”

For at least the past year the same debate has gone on in the U.S. and it is so sickening. It usually goes something like this: “Well we messed up Iraq, but we can’t just leave” or my favorite, “cut and run.” Somehow the administration (and the Democrats) have convinced the American people that the only choice we have is to stay in this war.

Bacevich responds to this:

There may be realms of human endeavor where sheer persistence transforms a dumb idea into a good one. War, however, is not among them. Bad wars don’t become good wars simply by hanging in there. In fact, persevering in a misguided war almost always makes things worse, both politically and morally. Iraq is one such war.

Bacevich lays out three alternatives that the U.S. could be doing instead of funneling more money into military surges. I found his thoughts very helpful. So I will quote him at length, but if you have a moment check out the article, No Exit From Iraq?

One possibility is to provide the wherewithal to care for the estimated 2 million Iraqi refugees who have fled that country since the U.S. invasion. Most of these Iraqis now reside in Jordan, Syria, and Egypt, nations ill equipped to provide food and shelter, clean water and adequate medical care, jobs and education. For affluent America to foot the bill for the refugees would make for a nice down payment on our moral debt.

A second possibility is to provide sanctuary in the United States for those refugees and for those Iraqis who have supported U.S. forces or worked for U.S. government agencies in Iraq. Permanent residence in the United States will mean safety and the opportunity for a new life, a wonderful way to meet our moral obligations and fully consistent with American tradition. We should open our doors and our communities to Iraq’s huddled masses.

A third option is to take the money the Bush administration is currently spending on the war and use it instead to make Iraq whole, if and when the violence there eventually subsides. Currently, the war costs American taxpayers $4 billion per week. Let’s earmark three years’ worth of war spending-that’s roughly $600 billion-for the reconstruction and repair of Iraq’s infrastructure. By rebuilding schools and hospitals, road and bridges, towns and villages, such a “Marshall Plan” for Iraq would go far toward making amends to those who have suffered as a consequence of the war.

Along the way, the U.S. government might want to issue a public apology for having collaborated with Saddam Hussein in the 1980s and for having abandoned the Kurds and Shiites who rose up against him in 1991 at our behest. We should offer affected Shiites monetary compensation-there are ample precedents for such action. To compensate the Kurds, we might support their ambitions to create a fully independent Kurdistan, offering security guarantees to ensure that these oft-abused and frequently betrayed people will be allowed to live in peace.

So what do you think? What is the United States’ obligation to the Iraqi people? We are nearly 5 years into this war without an end in sight. Can we use our imagination?

Papal Prayer for Peace and Justice

Immaculate Heart of Mary, help us to conquer the menace of evil, which so
easily takes root in the hearts of the people of today, and whose immeasurable
effects already weigh down upon our modern world and seem to block the paths
toward the future. From famine and war, deliver us. From nuclear war, from
incalculable self-destruction, from every kind of war, deliver us. From sins
against human life from its very beginning, deliver us. From hatred and from
the demeaning of the dignity of the children of God, deliver us. From every kind
of injustice in the life of society, both national and international, deliver us.
From readiness to trample on the commandments of God, deliver us. From
attempts to stifle in human hearts the very truth of God, deliver us. From the
loss of awareness of good and evil, deliver us. From sins against the Holy Spirit,
deliver us. Accept, O Mother of Christ, this cry laden with the sufferings of all
individual human beings, laden with the sufferings of whole societies. Help us
with the power of the Holy Spirit to conquer all sin: individual sin and the “sin
of the world,” sin in all its manifestations. Let there be revealed once more in
the history of the world the infinite saving power of the redemption: the power
of merciful love. May it put a stop to evil. May it transform consciences. May
your Immaculate Heart reveal for all the light of hope. Amen.1

Pope John Paul II

Rowan Williams on the Witness of the Chruch

Earthly authority needs to reinforce itself in conflict and dominance; if the community of Jesus’ followers reinforced itself in such a way, it would be admitting that its claims were derived from this human order. The realm, the basileia, of God, to which Jesus’ acts and words point is not a region within human society any more than it is a region within human geography; it is that condition of human relationships, public and private, where the purpose of God is determinative for men and women and so becomes visible in our history – a condition that can be partially realised in the life of the community around Jesus but waits for its full embodiment in a future only God knows. And for the first and second generations of believers, the community in which relation with the Risen Jesus transforms all relationships into the exchange of the gifts given by Jesus’ Spirit has come to be seen as the historical foretaste of this future, as it is here and now the embodiment of Jesus’ own identity – the Body of Christ – to the extent it shows this new quality of relation.The Church is, in this perspective, the trustee of a vision that is radical and universal, the vision of a social order that is without fear, oppression , the violence of exclusion and the search for scapegoats because it is one where each recognizes their dependence on all and each is seen as having an irreplaceable gift for all. The Church cannot begin to claim that it consistently lives by this; its failure is all too visible, century by century. But its credibility does not hang on its unbroken success; only on its continued willingness to be judged by what it announces and points to, the non-competitive, non-violent order of God’s realm, centred upon Jesus and accessible through commitment to him.

Rowan Williams, “Faith Communities in a Civil Society – Christian Perspectives” Sermon given at King’s College, Cambridge10th September 2007

“My Peace I leave with you”

My friend Halden Doerge at Inhabitatio Dei has posted an excellent series on pacifism as viewed by a number of Christian theological traditions. Check out the index of posts.

Will Marv Win In the End?

When I told people I was taking a class with veteran anti-war activist Marv Davidov, I received a variety of responses. From coffee shop junkies who informed me that “Marv is a legend” to my own father who said “Oh yeah, who hasn’t heard of Marv Davidov?” Indeed, anyone from Minneapolis and probably any long-time peace activist will know the name Marv Davidov. Noam Chomsky reflected on Marv’s life saying, “Marv’s dedication and courage have been demonstrated in a way that has led to the creation of a community of committed people, whose ongoing activities have been an inspiration to others.”

Besides my Nain (Grandma in Welsh), Marv was the first person to introduce me to active nonviolence. In a class co-taught with Jack Nelson-Pallmeyer, Marv recounted, full of personality, his “oral history” of activism. After coming home from war in Vietnam, Marv became an outspoken critic of the Minneapolis-based weapons manufacturer, Honeywell. He led a campaign known as the “Honeywell Project” that directly confronted the company’s manufacturing of cluster bombs. I remember when Marv brought in his exploded “bomblet” from a cluster bomb. He told us that he used to carry it everywhere he went. Marv’s story of his fight against cluster bombs was compelling and left us all wanting to carry on his tradition. Today, Alliant Techsystems manufactures these bombs and you will still see Marv’s face out at the site at the once a week vigil.

After my class with Marv I had the opportunity to spend time with him while we campaigned together for, in his words “the second coming of Paul [wellstone],” his hero Jack Nelson-Pallmeyer for US Congress. I also had the opportunity to spend a weekend with him traveling by van to Goshen for a peace conference.

Today, according to an Associated Press article, 48 countries meet in Oslo, Norway, not least because of the work of Marv Davidov, to discuss a drive that will call for the end of the use of cluster bombs.

To hear this makes me think of Marv and his legacy. It also makes me think of how fortunate I am to have studied nonviolence under such a living legend. Most of all, however, when I think of Marv I don’t think of his legendary character. Instead, I think of the Marv I have known – the man who loves to the talk shit, swear, and smoke cigarettes; the man who was the first to jump in front of every camera at every protest in order to speak out against injustice. When I think of Marv I begin to laugh because he is one funny son-of-a-bitch. Marv’s legacy will endure, of course, and one day my baby boy will live in a world without cluster bombs. I thank Marv for this.