What position should Christians hold with regard to the use of violence in conflict resolution? This question and one closely related to it— what should the Christian position be regarding participation in war?—have arisen consistently throughout the history of the Christian tradition. On the one hand, passages such as the Sermon on the Mount, with its injunctions not to resist an evil person and to “turn the other cheek” (Matt. 5:38-39), have been taken by many to mean that violence is not an acceptable tool for Christians to use or be involved with. On the other hand, there are many instances where the OT records God as commanding his people to engage in war against certain kinds of enemies (e.g., various cases in the book of Joshua). So what are Christians to do? Should they set aside the nonviolence of Jesus? Or is Jesus’ own apparent commitment to nonviolence in the Gospels intended by God to be an example for engaging evil and violence?
Before taking up this question directly, it is important to clarify terms and to address a common confusion around the concept of pacifism. First, contrary to what many believe, the term pacifism does not name a single position but rather points to a constellation of positions that have to do with resisting the use of violence. Perhaps no one made this fact clearer than John Howard Yoder did in his book Nevertheless: A Meditation on the Varieties and Shortcomings of Religious Pacifism. Yoder explores in excess of twenty-five different ways in which different groups have understood what it means to be a pacifist. Yoder was a committed pacifist, but he held his position critically, and so he critically examined these different forms of pacifism.
Second, when one engages in popular debate on the topic, those who oppose the pacifist position erroneously conflate pacifism with passivism. Those who make this mistake often critique pacifism by implying that the pacifist argues that we should stand idly by while evil is being perpetrated in the world. If pacifists really were passivists, then this critique would be valid, but they are not. Yoder once commented that pacifists rule out only one option when it comes to considering the Christian response to evil, namely, the use of violence as a means of conflict resolution.
A third, but less common, mistake occurs when someone claims that the pacifist position stands at the opposite end of the spectrum from the just-war position. In reality, the pacifist and the just-war theorist agree that some limits must be put on the deployment of violence and war as tools for resolving conflict. The pacifist, of course, limits the use of violence much more strictly than does the just-war theorist. However, both the pacifist and the just-war theorist actually stand at the opposite end of the spectrum from the crusader, who tends to see little or no limits on the use of war to accomplish one’s ends.
Historically speaking, the data confirm that the early church was predominantly pacifist. Prior to the year 200 CE, the Christian tradition was overwhelmingly pacifist, with several examples of individuals martyred for their unwillingness to take up arms. Although there was some slight movement away from this after 200 CE, the church remained predominantly pacifist until the time of Constantine. Once Christians gained an emperor sympathetic to their cause and willing to welcome them into the corridors of power, the access to imperial power changed the outlook on the acceptability of deploying violence in defense of the state. After Constantine, the church had a vested interest in the success of the state and thus came to view the use of power differently. The debate continues as to whether this change was a positive aspect of having access to power or was a basic betrayal of the call to embody Jesus’ mandate to be peacemakers.
Biblically speaking, the early parts of the OT do not present a position that is embodied in the commitments of contemporary pacifists. Hence, one is faced immediately with the question of how to present a consistent biblical hermeneutic that allows one rightly to conclude that God calls us to lives of nonviolence. While one need not affirm
Vernard Eller’s argument at every point, in War and Peace: From Genesis to Revelation he presents a strong case for understanding the unfolding of the biblical narrative in a way that explains why, by the time we get to Jesus, the expectation is that Christians will embrace the nonviolent example of the one whom they call the Prince of Peace. In summary form, Eller’s thesis is that the biblical narrative tells the story of how God progressively weans his children away from the use of violence to the point that they can see in the model of Jesus one who shows what it means to overcome evil through suffering.
To explore Eller’s argument, consider the extent to which early narratives in Genesis convey a picture of humanity that sees no problem with using violence. Even in some of these narratives, though, the readings that seem to affirm the use of violence are not without ambiguity. For example, in Gen. 10:9-10 we come across the character Nimrod. The common translation of the passage observes that Nimrod was a mighty warrior before the Lord, with the implication that God is either pleased with Nimrod the warrior or, minimally, is not particularly concerned by him. However, Eller is more inclined to the translation given by Jacques Ellul: “Nimrod was a violent man, upon whom God kept a close eye.” The difference is immediately obvious in that the alternative translation problematizes the use of violence in ways the more popular translation obscures. Nimrod is not the mighty warrior upon whom God looks with favor; he is the one who easily appeals to violence, and so God must keep an extra close watch on him.
Another example of a text that can easily be misread is the injunction in Exod. 21:23-25 to repay “life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.” At first reading, this seems to warrant the use of violence to respond to violence. However, one has to take the time to situate this passage in its historical setting. It was not unusual for people to repay an evil by visiting a much greater evil on their enemies. If you kill a member of my clan, then I come after not only the killer but also all of your clan. This injunction to repay eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and so on actually moves away from unrestrained violence. God is limiting the response that one can make to injury brought about by another. No longer are people to exact unrestrained vengeance on an enemy; instead, God now expects that the repayment of evil for evil will be limited to an “in-kind” degree of evil. This is consistent with
Eller’s claim that God is moving his people, step by step, away from violence.
Throughout the first half of the OT Eller sees God conducting a series of movements away from the use of violence. The first can be seen in the example in the preceding paragraph. The next step is when God steps in and says, in effect, “You can go to war, but only when I say so.” This next move is exemplified in the example of Gideon and his three hundred soldiers (Judg. 7). In essence, God is allowing war, but only on his terms and in a way that makes it clear that God is doing the fighting. We need not see this progression as linear, with no sliding back into the old patterns from time to time; rather, we should see it as a progression that moves, even if sometimes irregularly, through these steps with a major transition when we get to late Isaiah. For example, in Isa. 53 we have the image of the suffering servant, central for us in a number of ways. First, it is evident that the suffering servant is an important character who embodies God’s way of interacting with the world. Second, the way of interacting with evil embodied is best characterized as overcoming evil through suffering, through allowing evil to spend itself against us and thus undermining it by neither resisting evil nor confronting it with “in-kind” responses.
It becomes particularly significant for followers of Jesus that of the different strands evident in the OT, the one that Jesus picks up and models is the way of the suffering servant, the one who overcomes evil by allowing it to do its worst to him. The cross, then, becomes the ultimate symbol of overcoming evil through suffering. If God had wanted to demonstrate that war was an acceptable tool for the accomplishment of his ends, the evil perpetrated against the children of Abraham by the Romans would have justified violent response. However, even in the midst of such violent abuse, Jesus models the way of peace and resists the call of the Zealots to take up arms and fight against the Romans. The arc described by Eller, then, is now complete. The suffering servant, who is at once Son of God and Son of Man, is now the one who has been weaned from the use of violence against others and instead shows what it means to resist the temptation to respond in violence even to the point of his own death.
Christian pacifists encourage us to look radically at what it means to conduct oneself in the world, and the implications for the field of ethics are enormous. If God calls us to lead lives embracing nonviolence, then Christians must more aggressively offer alternative means for engagement with evil. Without the church modeling an alternative, the temptation to deploy our weapons of violence against enemies will be too hard to resist. As Yoder insisted, if we were as committed to spending resources to identify nonviolent ways of overcoming evil as we seem to be in spending resources to use violence to overcome evil, many new and creative solutions and strategies would undoubtedly be identified.
The pressing question from an ethical standpoint is whether the pacifist position is the one that followers of Jesus should take as normative: must all Christians be pacifists in order to faithfully embody the faith? Minimally, it seems right to observe that the pacifist arguments and their appeal to Scripture must be taken seriously. Too much hinges on the conclusion that one draws at this point. If faithfully following Jesus requires pacifism, then we must rethink what Dwight Eisenhower called the “military-industrial complex.” The amount of resources invested in militaries around the world, to a very real degree, limits the availability of resources available for other priorities, such as feeding the poor, providing healthcare for those who otherwise could not access it, providing basic infrastructure to support development, and so on. Additionally, if pacifism is to be seen as normative, then we must take nonviolent peacemaking strategies far more seriously than people, governments, and other institutions tend to do.
One of the ethical dilemmas that pacifists must face is how to deal with evil. Often pacifism is understood, and rightly so, as a position first and foremost about how one deals with international conflict. The pacifist simply is unwilling to so easily deploy military force. It is particularly troubling to the Christian pacifist that in the United States, for example, the demographic most willing to support war is the one that self-identifies as Christian. The nonpacifist may reasonably inquire of the pacifist what course of action should be taken if military engagement is wrong. It is at this point that the subtle nuances of the variety of pacifist positions are too easily overlooked. It is worth noting that the three most significant pacifist voices of the last century (Mohandas Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and John Howard Yoder) believed that the deployment of a police force within society was an appropriate measure. They did not see this as inconsistent with their pacifist beliefs. In fact, near the end of his life, Yoder was considering what it would look like to have an international police force that could be deployed to deal with international conflict, observing the kinds of rules of engagement that police forces follow.
Stepping back from the level of international conflict, one might also consider the ethics implied for our day-to-day interactions if we take more seriously the pacifist call to nonviolence. How might we deal with social injustices, for example? Even a cursory study of the lives of King and Gandhi shows the extent to which the ethic of nonviolent resistance was built into all that they did. Both men found powerful symbolic ways to draw attention to the plight of oppressed people, but both consistently resisted the temptation to “repay evil for evil,” even when they and their followers were being abused. Minimally, Christians need to ask themselves how the pacifist ethic ought to permeate their everyday lives so that the easy appeal to customary power paradigms is resisted in favor of more faithful imitation of the cross of Jesus— willing to suffer ourselves rather than to cause suffering to others.
See also Anabaptist Ethics; Force, Use of; Imitation of Jesus; Just-Peacemaking Theory; Just-War Theory; Peace; Security; Sermon on the Mount; Violence; War
Bibliography
Brown, D. Biblical Pacifism. Evangel Publishing House; Herald Press, 2003; Dombrowski, D. Christian Pacifism. Temple University Press, 1991; Eller, V War and Peace: From Genesis to Revelation. Wipf & Stock, 2003; Hauer-was, S. The Peaceable Kingdom: A Primer in Christian Ethics. University of Notre Dame Press, 1991; Merton, T., ed. Gandhi on Non-Violence: A Selection from the Writings of Mahatma Gandhi. New Directions Publishing, 1965; Sider, R. Non-Violence: The Invincible Weapon? Word, 1989; Stassen, G. Just Peacemaking: Transforming Initiatives for Justice and Peace. Westminster John Knox, 1992; Trocme, A. Jesus and the Nonviolent Revolution. Orbis, 2004; Wink, W. Jesus and Nonviolence: A Third Way, Fortress; Roundhouse, 2003; Yoder, J. Nevertheless: A Meditation on the Varieties and Shortcomings of Religious Pacifism. Herald Press, 1971; idem. The Politics of Jesus: Vicit Agnus Noster. 2nd ed. Eerdmans, 1994.
Charles E. Gutenson
Pain See Suffering
Paul offers an epitome of Christian ethics: “Live your life in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ” (Phil. 1:27) and “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 2:5). Characteristic of the Gospels is that Jesus “began to teach them many things in parables” (Mark 4:2), and the parables have been and remain a rich resource for discipleship and ethical reflection. The challenge is to describe how they so function in the Gospels and how they can be continually appropriated.
Speaking in Parables
“Parable,” from the Greek parabole, entails placing things side by side for the sake of comparison.
In the LXX, parabole normally translates the Hebrew masal, which embraces various literary forms. Parables, then, would include proverbs (1 Sam. 10:12; Prov. 1:1, 6; 26:7-9), riddles (Judg. 14:10-18), taunt songs (Mic. 2:4; Hab. 2:6), oracles (Num. 23:7, 18), and metaphors and allegories (Isa. 5:1-7; Ezek. 17:2-24). In the Gospels, parabolic material includes proverbs (Luke 4:23), examples (Luke 12:16-21), similitudes (Luke 5:36-39), similes (Matt. 13:33), allegory (Matt. 25:1-13), as well as the more familiar narrative parables (Luke 10:25-37; 15:11-32).
The wide use of the term parable has spawned a major problem of interpretation of the nature and function of parables, with the distinction between parable and allegory occupying center stage. The word allegory (from Gk. allegoreo, “to speak otherwise than one seems to speak”) is defined as “description of a subject under the guise of some other subject of aptly suggestive resemblance” (Oxford English Dictionary). It has been applied to biblical passages such as Isa. 5:1-7, the infidelity of the people described as an unfruitful vineyard, or to a whole book, such as Song of Songs. In the NT itself, parables are interpreted as allegories (Matt. 13:36-43; Mark 4:13-20). Allegory quickly became a dominant characteristic of parable interpretation throughout church history. For example, in reflecting on the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10:29-37), Augustine identifies the man who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho as Adam; Jerusalem is the state of original happiness; Jericho represents human mortality; the Samaritan is Christ; the inn is the church; the innkeeper is Paul; and so on (Dodd 1-2). Allegory interprets details independent of their literary and historical context. It is also coded language for insiders that illustrates or supports the previously held beliefs of a definite group. Although the rejection of allegory became a keystone of parable interpretation, often there was a failure to distinguish between interpreting nonallegorical material in an allegorical manner and allegory as a vital literary genre. Fruitful interpretation can take place as well through an allegorical retelling of a parable that remains faithful to the originating meaning of the parable.
With the rise of historical criticism, allegorical interpretation fades, due especially to the influence of Adolf Julicher, whose two-volume study marked a new era in parable research. From an understanding of parabole as found in Greek rhetoric, Juli-cher argued that parables were extended similes, whereas allegories were developed metaphors. In a simile, the point of comparison is clearly indicated by “like” or “as” (e.g., Luke 11:44), whereas metaphor is a compressed simile in which something is “transferred” or carried over (the literal meaning of metaphero) from one sphere to another, as in “The eye is the lamp of the body” (Matt. 6:22). Julicher calls metaphor “inauthentic speech” that obscures rather than illustrates truth.
According to Julicher, every parable is composed of an “image” (Bild) and the “reality part” (Sache), what the image points to. The focus of his position is that each parable has only one point of comparison. The individual details or characters in a parable have no meaning outside the parable (e.g., in Luke 15:11-32, the father does not stand for God, nor the elder brother for the Pharisees), and the point of comparison is one of the widest possible moral application.
Although subsequent scholarship rejected many of Julicher’s interpretations principally because of the rigidity of the single-point approach, the minimizing of OT background of Jesus’ teaching, and the neglect of similarities between Jesus and early rabbinic teachers, Julicher anticipated the major strains of parable research in the twentieth century: concern for parable as a literary form, parables as an entree to kingdom proclamation, and, later, the self-understanding of Jesus, and the ethical relevance of parables.
The most influential interpreter of the parables in the twentieth century was Joachim Jeremias. With almost unparalleled knowledge of first-century Palestine, Jeremias sheds light on the details of daily life that provide the material for the parables. More significantly, he carefully analyzes the changes that the parables underwent as they moved from the setting in the life of Jesus through the missionary proclamation of the early church and to their final incorporation into the Gospels. For example, parables are allegorized (Matt. 13:36-43; Mark 4:14-20); parables addressed originally to opponents are directed to church leaders (Matt. 18:10-14; Luke 15:1-7); details are embellished, and OT allusions are added.
Jeremias’s study of the parables, then, becomes a full-scale study of the message of Jesus. He rejected “realized eschatology,” as advocated by C. H. Dodd, and proposed “inaugurating escha-tology”—that is, in the process of realization. The definitive revelation of God’s reign has begun in Jesus; its full effect lies in the future. Jeremias’s view prevailed both as a faithful exegesis of Jesus’ parables and of Christian eschatology in general.
Although Dodd did not stress the ethical implication of the parables beyond their urgent
call to conversion, Jeremias sketched the major ethical demands of Jesus by grouping particular parables under headings such as “God’s Mercy for Sinners,” “It May Be Too Late,” “The Challenge of the Hour,” and “Realized Discipleship.” Klyne Snodgrass adopts a similar approach in the most recent comprehensive study of the parables.
In the last third of the twentieth century, concern for the form and literary quality of the parables prevailed over their use to reconstruct the teaching of Jesus. Along with concern for the parables as the key to the teaching of Jesus, the other major focus of parable research has been concern for their literary nature. This owes much to Dodd’s inductive description of parable “as a metaphor or simile drawn from nature or common life, arresting the hearer by its vividness or strangeness and leaving the mind in sufficient doubt about its precise application to tease it into active thought” (Dodd 5). These qualities of metaphoric language, realism, paradox, and open-ended summons to personal engagement became the focus for subsequent discussion.
Seminal works by Amos Wilder and Robert Funk viewed parables primarily as poetic rather than rhetorical forms where an appreciation of metaphor provided a key to a new vision of the parables. Metaphor, they noted, by the often surprising equation of dissimilar elements—for example, “You are the salt of the earth” (Matt. 5:13)—produces an impact on the imagination that cannot be conveyed by discursive speech. With Funk and Wilder, metaphor has moved from literary trope or figure to a theological and hermeneutical category; it is especially suited to express the two necessary qualities of all religious language, immediacy and transcendence. A religious experience, that sense of awe in the face of the holy or of being grasped by mystery, is immediate and personal and, in great religious literature, is expressed in concrete, physical imagery.
The parables of Jesus are more exactly “metaphoric” rather than metaphors, since metaphor involves the combination of two distinct images joined in a single sentence, whereas the Gospel parables generally are extended narratives. They combine narrative form and metaphoric process (Ricoeur). Focus quickly shifted to a “narrative” reading of parables. Again, Wilder was a leader. He argued that in telling about God’s reign “in story,” Jesus continued the narrative legacy of biblical revelation. In reading the stories of Jesus, a Christian realizes that life is “a race, a pilgrimage, in short, a story” (Wilder 65).
Ethics and the Parables
The formal characteristics of parables themselves have ethical implications. Jesus used realistic images from daily life that caught his hearers’ attention by their vividness and narrative color. Yet his parables have a surprising twist; the realism is shattered, and the hearers knew that something more was at stake than a homey illustration to drive home a point. The parables raise questions, unsettle the complacent, and challenge the hearers to reflection and inquiry.
Illustrations from daily life. In the parables of Jesus the life of ordinary people from a distant time and culture comes alive in a way found rarely in ancient literature. Jesus was familiar with a rural Galilean milieu: outdoor scenes of farming and shepherding, and domestic scenes in a simple one-room house (Luke 11:5-8). Jesus sees life through the eyes of the ’anawtm, the poor and humble of the land. This creates an obstacle for the modern urban reader and poses challenges to historians and archaeologists to help us understand better the cultural context of the parables. The realism of the parables means also that Jesus places the point of contact between God and humans within the everyday world of human experience. Jesus does not proclaim the kingdom in “God language”; rather, he summons his hearers to realize that their destinies are at stake in their “ordinary, creaturely existence, domestic, economic, social” (Wilder 82).
Novelty and paradox. The realism of the parables is but one side of the coin. The novel twists in Jesus’ stories make his hearers take notice. The harvest is not just bountiful, but extravagant (Mark 4:8); the mustard seed is the smallest of seeds, yet it becomes the “greatest of all shrubs” (Mark 4:31-32). The vineyard owner paying first those hired last (Matt. 20:8) makes the reader suspect that something strange is about to happen. A major key to the “meaning” of a given parable appears when the realism begins to break down.
Parables express a paradox, a seeming absurdity that conceals a deeper truth. Their fundamental message is that things are not as they seem; you must have your tidy image of reality shattered. The good Samaritan is not primarily an illustration of compassion and loving-kindness to the suffering, but rather a challenge to see as good those whom we would call enemy. The strange and paradoxical character of the parables is a counterpart to Jesus’ association with, and offer of mercy and grace to, tax collectors and sinners, those thought to be beyond the pale of God’s concern. Similarly, Paul Ricoeur notes that parables operate in a pattern of orientation, disorientation, and reorientation. Their hyperbolic and paradoxical language presents an extravagance that interrupts our normal way of viewing things and presents the extraordinary within the ordinary. The parables dislocate our project of trying to make a tight pattern of our lives, which Ricoeur feels is akin to the Pauline “boasting” or justification by works.
An open-ended challenge. In their transmission the parables received different applications and interpretations. Appended to the enigmatic parable of the unjust steward is a parade of interpretations, joined mainly by catchwords (Luke 16:8b-13). Other parables have appended sayings that are found in a number of different contexts (e.g., Matt. 25:13 = Mark 13:35; Matt. 25:29 = Mark 4:25; Matt. 13:12; Luke 8:18). The audience shifts; parables originally addressed to opponents are directed to the church (Matt. 18:1, 12-14; Luke 15:2-7). In their original form, the parables of Jesus may have ended at the narrative conclusion (e.g., Matt. 13:30; 18:34) or with a question or challenge (e.g., Matt. 20:15; 21:31; Mark 4:9). The meaning of a given parable often is elusive: is the point of the parable of the pearl (Matt. 13:45-46) the search, the joy of finding, or the willingness to risk all? Both in the early church and in subsequent history, the parables are “polyvalent.” They demand and receive different interpretation from different audiences. Although exegesis may determine the parameters of misinterpretation of a given parable, it can scarcely exhaust the potentialities for fruitful interpretation and application.
Parables are open-ended; they are invitations waiting for a response. The parable does not really exist until it is freely appropriated. The response of the reader or hearer in a real sense creates the meaning of the parable. Parable is a form of religious discourse that appeals not only to the imagination or to the joyous perception of paradox or surprise but also to the most basic of human qualities, freedom. Jesus chose a form of discourse that put his life and message at the risk of free human response.
Appropriating the parables for Christian ethics is an aspect of the larger issue of the relation of Scripture and ethics. Fundamentally, the parables are an aspect of “remembering Jesus,” and through preaching and study they form the conscience of Christian communities (Verhey 22-26; 286-87). The parables provide a storehouse of images that counter distorted images flooding our consciousness (Spohn 60-64). The poor, the disabled, and marginal are not to be hidden or neglected but are to be welcomed for dinner (Luke 14:16-24); women are not to be seen as powerless victims when a widow claims her rights before a corrupt judge (Luke 18:1-8); remembering Jesus is to follow the trajectory of the church through the ages as it retells and adapts the parables of Jesus.
Parables likewise contain clear exhortations to discipleship, warnings about failure, examples of virtues and vices; they nurture Christian attitudes and dispositions and enrich the imagination of believers. Although from a cultural milieu strange to most people today, they have a universal quality that, through reflective analogy, can shape the values of a Christian community. Experiencing and extending forgiveness “from one’s heart” is a fundamental Christian challenge (Matt. 18:23-35), and the claims of justice should not limit generosity (Matt. 20:1-16). Christians still long for a God who reaches out in a surprising manner to the prodigal and the dutiful and risks the good of the majority to seek out the lost (Luke 15:1-32); blindness to the destitute at one’s doorstep is a stain on Christian faith (Luke 16:19-31). The shock that the threatening outsider can actually be a “good Samaritan” who heals and gives life can overturn fixed prejudices and correct false values (Luke 10:25-37). The Gospels continue to teach many things in parables.
See also Eschatology and Ethics; Kingdom of God; New Testament Ethics
Bibliography
Blomberg, C. Interpreting the Parables. InterVarsity, 1992; Dodd, C. H. The Parables of the Kingdom. Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1961; Donahue, J. The Gospel in Parable: Metaphor, Narrative, and Theology in the Synoptic Gospels. Fortress, 1988; Funk, R. Language, Hermeneutic, and the Word of God: The Problem of Language in the New Testament and Contemporary Theology. Harper & Row, 1966; Hultgren, A. The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary. Eerdmans, 2002; Jeremias, J. The Parables of Jesus. Trans. S. Hooke. Scribner, 1972; Julicher, A. Die Gleich-nisreden Jesu. 2 vols. Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1969 [1899]; Kissinger, W. The Parables of Jesus: A History of Interpretation and Bibliography. Scarecrow Press and American Library Association, 1979; Perrin, N. Jesus and the Language of the Kingdom: Symbol and Metaphor in New Testament Interpretation. Fortress, 1976; Ricoeur, P. “Biblical Hermeneutics.” Semeia 4 (1975): 27-148; Scott, B. Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus. Fortress, 1989; Snodgrass, K. Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus. Eerdmans, 2008; Spohn, W. Go and Do Likewise: Jesus and Ethics. Continuum, 1999; Verhey, A. Remembering Jesus: Christian Community, Scripture, and the Moral Life. Eerdmans, 2002; Wilder, A. Early Christian Rhetoric: The Language of the Gospel. Harvard University Press, 1972.
John R. Donahue
Pardon See Forgiveness
The story of parenting in Scripture is appropriately confounding. The first instance of the Hebrew word most simply associated with “love” appears in what is arguably the most morally fraught passage in the Bible: a divine command for a parent to sacrifice his own child. The word that the NRSV translates as “love” in the command to Abraham is ahab: “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you” (Gen. 22:2). Centuries of interpreters (some of them parents, all of them once children) have struggled over the meaning. It has been little solace to most that God required only Abraham’s obedience, not his obedience unto Isaac’s death.
The Danish theologian S0ren Kierkegaard donned a silent pseudonym (Johannes de Silentio) to speak of this story in Fear and Trembling (1843). Central to de Silentio’s queries is the conflict in commands. Could sacrifice ever be consonant with parental love? If Abraham is, in a proleptic way, responsible to God’s command to love one’s neighbor (Lev. 19:18), even to love the alien in his midst (Lev. 19:34), would he not be responsible for loving his son Isaac? Here the wording of the command in Gen. 22 is crucial. Abraham is to take his “only” son, the son whom he did “love.” As Kierkegaard mimes the unspeakable, Abraham was simultaneously to love his son and to draw the knife. If Abraham had not loved Isaac, and had been all too able to envision his own life without his child, the story might still be horrific, but sadly common.
Here is part of the trouble. Isaac is not Abraham’s “only son.” Isaac may be Abraham’s only beloved son, but Isaac has an older brother, Ish-mael. What to do with this twist in the story? Placed as it is in a series of stories, does the command now include a form of divine irony? The first direct scriptural reference to parental love is thus multiply fraught. The father of faith, apparently able to will the unspeakable, seems also to have willfully misplaced a child.
Hagar faced the terror of her son’s exposure. Ishmael was not an orphan; he had a mother, who raged for his sake, even to God. In this, Hagar may be a role model for those who attend closely to scriptural stories of parents. Lament is an apt response to two stories on the way into the abyss that is Judges. Abraham escapes the torture of killing Isaac. Jephthah does not do so with his daughter (Judg. 11:29-40). “And Jephthah made a vow to the Lord, and said, ‘If you will give the Ammonites into my hand, then whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return victorious from the Ammonites, shall be the Lord’s, to be offered up by me as a burnt offering.’ ” Returning victorious, his daughter greets him “with timbrels and with dancing.” Within two months, she suffers “according to the vow” that her father had made. The “whoever” required for victory turns out to be Jephthah’s own daughter. We do not know whether her father actually loves her, only that she is a virgin. This story echoes as the master of the house in Judg. 19 offers his “virgin daughter” to assuage the “base fellows” at his door. In Judg. 11, the virgin daughter symbolically replaces Isaac as a sacrifice; here in Judg. 19, the virgin daughter is to replace an endangered guest in her father’s house. The guest’s concubine is sent out—a nonvirgin in exchange for a guest and a virgin. By the close of Judges, she has been ritually dismembered, and the young women of Shiloh have been taken as booty for the Benjaminites. Those who hear are to lament, as “in those days there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes” (Judg. 21:25).
Could a king be the answer to the violent chaos against daughters, sons, virgins, and concubines? In the Septuagintal order of OT books, Ruth follows the ominous last line of Judges, quoted just above. The movement from chaos to kingship is interrupted by a childless woman who does what is right in God’s eyes. During this menacing time “when the Judges ruled,” there is also a famine, and a mother is left as a nonparent, with only two daughters-in-law (and foreign ones at that). Ruth resolves to bind herself to Naomi, willing to be aligned with a widow whose deity seems bleakly behind on keeping up with his own children. (The story has been a scriptural word [Ruth 1:16-17] for many twentieth-century weddings in the United States. The mix of marital promise, overpriced dresses, and carefully chosen invitation lists is not quite the right setting for the story, but perhaps it testifies nonetheless.) Ruth adopts a parent who is not her own kin, whose history is marked by tragic loss and whose future has no prospects. The great-grandmother of David adopts a deity whose children, in the canonical sweep of the story, are awash in bloody violence. In the small scope of Ruth’s story, this same deity has failed to protect the man who was supposed to be the father of her children. Given all of this, those who hear the story might rightly hope that Naomi will give her daughter praise as they enter Bethlehem. Naomi gives her testimony, one that may resonate with children who care for bereft parents. With Ruth beside her, Naomi laments that she has returned home empty (Ruth 1:21). The scriptural word on parenting here involves death, tenacity, lament, bitterness, and, eventually, new life.
Readers of the NT are duly warned that Jesus’ ministry may do more to break than to bind bonds of blood and marriage (see, e.g., Matt. 10:16-23, 34-39). Even so, key miracle stories included in the canonical Gospels involve the petitions of a parent on behalf of a cherished child. Apparently, belief in the resurrection did not preclude for early Christians a deep, embodied attachment to their earthly children in this life. Perhaps the women and men around Jesus recognized in him the strength of Elijah, who, after being saved by crows, saved the widow of Zarephath’s son (1 Kgs. 17). Faith emboldened one mother to approach Jesus to heal her child (Matt. 15:22-28). She sacrifices what might be called her dignity and risks the scorn of Jesus’ disciples. The Canaanite mother comes to Jesus, begging him to heal her daughter. The disciples urge Jesus to send her summarily away. Whose child is this parent? To whom does she belong? Jesus notes that she is not a sheep of Israel, and that she is not among the children to whom he was sent. She engages in brilliant rabbinic commentary: “Even family dogs are allowed to receive scraps from children’s plates. Throw me and my daughter a scrap,” she counters, and thus she opens the way for Jesus’ ministry to dogged gentiles.
How is God parental? The story of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32) may be read helpfully alongside the story of Joseph, another beloved son of an extravagantly loving parent (Gen. 37-50). Joseph’s brothers are so jealous of Jacob’s love for Joseph that they sell Joseph into slavery. Through trickery, Joseph is able simultaneously to save, humble, and forgive his brothers. In what remains one of the most memorable lines in Scripture, Joseph unravels and reweaves a story of parental error and fraternal treachery: “Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today” (Gen. 50:20).
God’s intention of good for God’s own “little ones” (see Gen. 50:21) is unwaveringly resilient, but such grace may also offend. Obedient sheep may resent the willful stupidity of a sibling who takes their protector off into the wilds. Jesus revisits the ramification of parental favor in the Lukan story. A father behaves with foolish extravagance, running joyfully, unceremoniously toward a son who smells of swine. The forgiving father does not permit the lost son even to complete his prepared apology. The father interrupts the son’s attempt to humble himself, by calling those around him to prepare for a celebratory feast. One refuses.
The older son names himself a “slave,” situating himself in a position spared of the younger son by his father’s sheer grace. The foolish son, who has “devoured” the family’s goods, is given a fatted calf. But the one who has been “working like a slave” is not sent away hungry. The father tells the older son, “You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.” The newly found sheep are fed, the wayward “little ones” spared. But this changes nothing regarding the older, obedient children. They are, as ever, always with God, and all that is God’s is theirs.
What of the prodigal daughter? The story that Jesus tells in Luke makes clear that sleeping with prostitutes is akin to sleeping with pigs. The association soils. This may take the reader back to questions raised earlier. Isaac is spared. A virgin daughter and a concubine are brutally sacrificed. Ishmael, although fiercely defended by his mother, is expelled and forgotten by his father. To consider parenting in Scripture is to come up against fraught danger and violent error. For many, it brings up a question that songwriter and biblical commentator Michelle Shocked asks in her song “Prodigal Daughter.” What of the virgin, and what of the prostitute? What of the concubine and her child? The wayward son receives a party, but “when a girl goes home with the oats he’s sown, it’s draw your shades and your shutters. She’s bringing such shame to the family name, the return of the prodigal daughter.” In John 7:53-8:11, Jesus calls the religious leaders up short when they are determined to stone the adulterous daughter of Israel. Was that enough? Has it been enough to protect fallen daughters and ill-begotten sons? Shocked’s song imagines that the prodigal son receives a “tall drink of water,” while “there’s none in the cup, cause he drank it all up, left for a prodigal daughter.” Here, with the Canaanite woman, dogged believers are called to trust that the crumbs, the dregs, will be enough.
See also Child Abuse; Children; Family; Love, Love Command
Bibliography
Bunge, M., ed. The Child in the Bible. Eerdmans 2008; Trible, P. Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives. OBT. Fortress, 1984; Weems, R. Just a Sister Away: A Womanist Vision of Women’s Relationships in the Bible. LuraMedia, 1988; Wheeler, S. What We Were Made For: Christian Reflections on Love. Jossey-Bass, 2007.
Amy Laura Hall
The passions (Eng. passion is derived from Gk. pathos) were understood in classical thought as movements of the soul toward the sensuous good or away from sensuous evil. Although closely linked to the modern concept of emotion, the passions are correlative to particular ancient theories of human nature and must be understood in the context of these theories.
Plato (427-347 BCE), perhaps drawing on the earlier psychology of the Pythagoreans, posited a threefold division in the soul of the living person: the appetitive part, the seat of sensuous desire; the spirited part, the seat of courage; and the rational part, the seat of reason, which ruled the other two as a charioteer directing two horses (Resp. 4; Phaedrus). Plato’s pupil Aristotle (384-322 BCE) proposed a modified view in which the soul was united to the body as its “form” or “actuality” (entelecheia) and was composed in humans of the vegetative soul, the seat of growth and reproduction shared with all forms of life; the sensitive soul, the seat of sensation, perception, and sensual desire, shared with the animals; and the rational soul, unique to humans and endowing humans with their capacity for reason (De an. 2-3). Aristotle held that habituation into the intellectual and moral virtues or excellences (aretai) is necessary for the attainment of a flourishing life in which reason rightly orders the desires, or passions, of the soul. Both the later works of Plato and Aristotle’s philosophy held that the passions were a part of well-lived embodied human life; the goal was not to extirpate the animal passions but rather to moderate them under the control of reason.
The various Stoic writers generally both carried on and intensified the Platonic-Aristotelian teaching that the well-lived moral life is characterized by habits of excellence (or virtue) that demonstrate the mastery of reason over animal desire. For the Stoics, virtue became the supreme good, to be pursued for its own sake regardless of external circumstances. “Virtue,” wrote Cicero (106-43 BCE), “is self-sufficient for a happy life” (Tusc. 5.1); because “troubled movements and agitations of the soul, roused and excited by ill-considered impulse, in scorn of all reason, leave no portion of happy life behind them” (Tusc. 5.6), the virtuous person, for the Stoics, is to strive for the ideal of apatheia, complete freedom from the controlling influence of the passions, or at least eupatheiai, passions that are rightly ordered by reason.
How did the NT writers incorporate and change the classical (and, in particular, the Stoic) account of the passions? First, they inherited in Israel’s Scriptures a textual tradition that not only imparted “passion” language to God (e.g., Ps. 6:1) but also implicitly authorized expressions of fear, desperation, joy, and praise in liturgical contexts. The songbook of the Second Temple period, the book of Psalms, became the songbook of the early church, and the cries of Job and the prophets were understood as the church’s cries. Unlike the Stoics, therefore, the early Christians understood themselves to be covenanted in Christ to a God who transcended (fallen) nature and to whom lament, and not just praise, could be offered.
Despite this, Greek philosophy became well established in some strands of Jewish life and literature in the centuries before Christ (e.g., Wisdom of Solomon), and the influence of pagan philosophy is evident particularly in the Pauline Epistles and the Pastoral Epistles. The term epithymia, used in pagan philosophy to connote carnal desire, is occasionally used in a morally neutral way (e.g., Luke 22:15; 1 Tim. 3:1 [verb epithymed]), but overwhelmingly it is used to describe the desires of “the flesh” (Gal. 5:24; 1 Pet. 2:11), which entice the moral agent away from holiness. But the repeated scriptural condemnations of “the world” (e.g., 1 John 2:15-17) and “the gentiles” (e.g., 1 Thess. 4:5) should not obscure the fact that contemporary Stoic moralists too would have condemned most of the behaviors that appear in the various Pauline taxonomies of vice (e.g., Rom. 1:18-32; 1 Cor. 6:9-10; Gal. 5:19-21).
Despite this resonance with pagan virtue theory, however, the life, passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ imparted to the NT writers an understanding of the virtuous life that would have been unthinkable to the writers of pagan antiquity. Christ, after all, suffered; the early Christians therefore could understand their own suffering as participation in the suffering of Christ and their own victory over sin as participation in Christ’s resurrection. The pagan ideals of apatheia or abstract “virtue” could not be understood apart from participation in Christ; because of this, the moral injunctions of the NT become richly narrative. Whereas Cicero wrote in praise of virtue, Paul wrote in praise of “the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,” adding that “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death” (Phil. 3:8, 10). Participation in Christ becomes, for the early Christians, what virtue was to the Stoics: the way to freedom from ensnaring and enslaving bondage to that which is not true and good.
Understanding the life of Christ as the moral life of excellence, the early Christians were forced to retain a place for the passions in their moral psychology. Jesus wept, for example, and so impassioned expressions of grief, however different in practice from those of “others . . . who have no hope” (1 Thess. 4:13), could not be dismissed as intrinsically evil. Christ suffered for others, and so suffering for the sake of others became morally intelligible for Christians as well (Col. 1:24-29). But much more than the exemplar of the Christian moral life, Christ also became, in a deeply participatory way, its internal logic. Paul writes that the “flesh with its passions and desires [epithymiai]” has, in Christ, been crucified (Gal. 5:24), and in its place is life “by the Spirit,” a life in which the passions are rightly ordered (Gal. 5:22-23). The Ephesians, likewise, having been “made alive together with Christ” (Eph. 2:5), are enjoined to “put away . . . your old self, corrupt and deluded by its lusts [epithymiai]” and “clothe yourselves with the new self, created according to the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Eph. 4:22-24). The author of 1 Peter similarly enjoins believers, as a result of Christ’s passion, to “live for the rest of your earthly life no longer by human desires [epithymiai] but by the will of God” (1 Pet. 4:2).
In all of these NT texts it is clear that the passions are not to be abandoned, ignored, or suppressed but rather transformed by grace into Christ’s passions, such that the Christian loves what Christ loves, hates what Christ hates, suffers when Christ suffers. The Christian life, that is, is to be characterized not by the absence of desire but rather by desire rightly directed. In Augustine’s memorable words, “The citizens of the Holy City of God, as they live by God’s standards in the pilgrimage of this present life, feel fear and desire, pain and gladness in conformity with the holy Scriptures and sound doctrine; and because their love is right, all these feelings are right in them” (Civ. 14.9).
See also Affections; Desire; Emotion; Lust; Suffering; Vices and Virtues, Lists of; Virtue Ethics
Bibliography
Brueggemann, W. The Psalms and the Life of Faith. Fortress, 1995; Nussbaum, M. The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics. Princeton University Press, 1994.
Warren Kinghorn
In contemporary parlance, patience involves waiting calmly and hopefully. It implies endurance through time that is neither hurried nor anxious. The NT also links patience (usually expressed by the verb makrothymeo or the noun makrothymia) with calmly waiting for the appointed time. “Be patient, therefore, beloved, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You too must be patient” (Jas. 5:7-8).
Perhaps because of its distance from earth’s rhythms, contemporary Western culture hurries time, demanding quick results. So patience is increasingly difficult but increasingly necessary. Two strong theological pathways lie open for reclaiming patience. First, the Bible describes God as patient, which affects how we conceive it in ourselves. Second, the Christian virtue of patience has long been understood as protective; it keeps us from inordinate sorrow when we suffer evil.
Patience is attributed to Christ in 1 Tim. 1:16: “I received mercy so that in me, as the foremost [sinner], Jesus Christ might display the utmost patience, making me an example to those who would come to believe in him for eternal life.” Christ does not press his justified case against Paul, the putative author of 1 Timothy; what is more, he extends time for Paul to respond to his grace. Christ’s patience adds time to mercy, deepening it.
Paul writes similarly in Romans, “What if God . . . has endured with much patience the objects of his wrath that are made for destruction . . . in order to make known the riches of his glory?” (Rom. 9:22-23). God’s patience here supports the complete biblical story; space is opened for it precisely as God is both merciful and patient. So Karl Barth ruminates, “The fact that He [God] has time for us is what characterises His whole activity towards us as an exercise in patience. Included in this exercise of patience is both God’s mercy and punishment, God’s salvation and destruction, God’s healing and smiting. This all takes place in the course and service of the revelation of His Word. By it all Israel is instructed in the divine Word. . . . God always, and continually, has time for Israel” (Barth 417). For Barth, the very existence of the long biblical narrative is a decisive sign of God’s patience. In that narrative God’s word has gone out and will not return to him void. Meanwhile, he waits, enduring, as Cyprian notes, humanity’s profanity and idolatry, hurled as insult.
Barth’s broad reflections bundle related theological notions. He includes anoche, usually translated “forbearance” (Rom. 2:4), in his expansive treatment of divine patience. By contrast, Thomas Aquinas delimits patience narrowly as a human virtue. As one of the nine fruits of the Spirit (from Gal. 5:22-23), patience differs from another fruit: long-suffering. When troubled, the mind’s good disposition is strengthened “first, by not being disturbed whenever evil threatens: which pertains to ‘patience’; secondly, by not being disturbed, whenever good things are delayed; which belongs to ‘long suffering’ ” (ST I-II, q. 70, a. 3). Thomas likewise distinguishes patience from perseverance, which is about “persisting long in something good until it is accomplished” (ST II-II, q. 137, a. 1).
If these distinctions appear overly fine, they function well when gathered into the cardinal virtue of fortitude (or courage), of which patience, perseverance, and long-suffering are parts. Conceived narrowly, fortitude strengthens us in the face of fear; more broadly, as a cardinal virtue, fortitude holds us fast as we struggle with difficult things. As a part of fortitude, patience specifically protects us from ill effects of the passion of sorrow.
Sorrow can paralyze. According to Thomas, it can deprive us of the power to learn, burden our souls, and weaken all our activities (ST I-II, q. 37). Inordinate sorrow collapses time into itself, such that progress on life’s journey seems impossible. Sorrow can cause us to lose track of where we are going; patience preserves us on our way. “Patience . . . is that by which we tolerate evil things with an even mind, that we may not with a mind uneven desert good things, through which we may arrive at better” (Augustine, Pat. 2). Patience not only weathers the passage of time; it actually keeps time, which sorrow can obliterate.
In this way patience connects to the theological virtues of hope and love. Hope “places us in a narrative in which our suffering can be endured and accordingly made part of our life” (Hauerwas and Pinches 122). Time, the gift of a patient God, now can be lived “toward hope.” Moreover, charity equips us to await the beloved’s response, as God waits for us. It gives her time. “Love is patient” (1 Cor. 13:4).
The model of patience for Christians is always Jesus Christ, who endured for us the greatest sorrow. Yet James also recalls the patience of the prophets, who in the face of suffering spoke the truth (5:10). Job similarly models endurance (hypomone) (5:11). This extended list suggests we learn patience best as we remember the saints who have gone before. Knowing sorrow, these ones nonetheless endured until the end: protected by patience, given in love, and steered by hope.
See also Courage; Fruit of the Spirit; Hope; Virtue(s); Virtue Ethics
Bibliography
Barth, K. Church Dogmatics. Vol. II/1. Trans. A. Mackay et al. T&T Clark, 1978; Hauerwas, S., and C. Pinches. Christians among the Virtues: Theological Conversations with
Ancient and Modern Ethics. University of Notre Dame Press, 1997, 113-28, 166-78.
Charles R. Pinches
Patriotism See Nationalism
Peace (Heb. salom; Gk. eirene) is a dominant moral quality and goal in Scripture. Seeking peace by oppressing others (as the pax Romana did) is not what either OT salom or NT eirene represents.
Salom occurs about 250 times in the OT, and eirene about 100 times in the NT. Salom, iridescent in meaning, means “wholeness” or “wellbeing.” Salom may denote (material) prosperity (Pss. 37:11; 72:1-7; 128:5-6; 147:14; Isa. 66:12; Zech. 8:12), ethical relationships (Zech. 8:19), or an eschatological vision of peace among nations, anticipating the “Prince of Peace” (Isa. 9:2-7; Zech. 9:9-11; cf. Isa. 2:2-4; Mic. 5:4-5). Old Testament scholars emphasize different, though complementary, meanings for salom: material, physical well-being within a social context of human relations (von Rad); relationship with God, inherent to salvation (Eisenbeis); one’s state or condition in life (Westermann; Gerleman; Yoder 1-8).
Salom also denotes a correct order of life that reflects creation’s purpose for human life (Schmid; Steck). God’s divine judgment, even in war, intends to restore salom. Whatever blocks Yahweh’s order for the world, materially or relationally, is the foe and antithesis of salom. Shalom cannot be understood apart from Yahweh-war, wars in which humans trust God for victory over enemies. God fights such wars to establish and maintain the creation order against chaos (Exod. 14:14; Pss. 29; 68; 89:7-18 [Ollenburger]) and to fulfill divine promises to Israel. The king was authorized to defend God’s salom order against injustice and oppression.
Perry Yoder proposes a moral dimension in salom, standing against oppression, deceit, fraud, and injurious actions. Salom contrasts to deceit (Pss. 34:14; 37:37; Jer. 9:8), denotes innocence from moral wrongdoing (Gen. 44:17; 1 Kgs. 5:12), and is paired with justice (mispat [Isa. 59:8; Zech. 8:16-19]) and righteousness (sedaqa [Ps. 72:7; Isa. 60:17]). Salom often is paired with healing
(Isa. 53:5; 57:18; Jer. 8:15; 14:19; 33:6-9), and its
cognate salem is best translated “health.” Thus salom may describe health (Ps. 38:3 [MT 38:4]) or prosperity (37:11 NRSV) as well as tranquility or quietness of spirit (Ps. 119:165). Some form of “Peace [salom] be with you” is a common greeting (Judg. 6:23; 19:20; 1 Sam. 25:6; Pss. 122:7-8; 125:5; 128:6). The treasured Aaronic benediction, “The Lord bless you and keep you,” ends with “the Lord . . . give you peace [salom]” (Num. 6:24-26).
The Lord is yhwh salom (Judg. 6:24; cf. yhwh rop’eka [“Lord your healer”] in Exod. 15:26). God ultimately is the source of peace (1 Kgs. 2:33; Isa. 52:7; 60:17; 66:12) and promises a new “covenant of peace” (Isa. 54:10; Ezek. 34:25; 37:26; Mal. 2:5-6), in which “the effect of righteousness will be peace” (Isa. 32:17); “righteousness and peace will kiss each other” (Ps. 85:10) (see Wolterstorff). Peace is paired also with God’s unfailing love and faithfulness (Ps. 85:7-13).
Although war is not an antonym of salom, the latter flourishes in times of peace, achieved often by negotiated treaties between nations (Deut. 20:10-12; Josh. 9:15; 10:1, 4; Judg. 4:17; 1 Sam. 7:14; 1 Kgs. 5:12). The wars of the kings, however, were waged mostly not “in the name of God’s order of righteousness and peace but rather in the name of an imperialistic ideology” (Hanson 351). Israel’s royal ideology collides with Isaiah’s salom, for the nation’s wars obstruct salom. Isaiah instead calls for quiet trust in God (Isa. 7:3-9; 8:6; 30:15). Deutero-Isaiah affirms new visions of salom (Isa. 52:7-10), including Israel’s servant suffering (Isa. 53:5, where “whole” translates salom), God’s sovereignty, and “a renewal of creation to its divinely intended wholeness” (Hanson 359). In postexilic Israel, however, internal community strife and excluding neighbors subvert this vision. “Beating swords into plowshares” (Isa. 2:4; Mic. 4:3) is eclipsed by an apocalyptic view that defers salom beyond history’s horizon and “inflicts stinging defeat on outsiders even as it imbues the insiders with paradisiacal blessing” (Hanson 361).
Eirene in secular Greek sources is comparatively narrow in meaning. It contrasts to war, describing the tranquility and prosperity that follow victory in war. In classical Greek literature eirene may refer to a sociopolitical condition or to the Greek goddess Eirene. The historians Herodotus (Hist. 1.87) and Thucydides (Pel. War 2.61.1) speak of peace as a desirable sociopolitical condition, for humanitarian and political reasons. A statue of Eirene was erected on the Agora in Athens in 375 BCE, and thereafter the annual celebration of the peace treaty between Sparta and Athens in 375 BCE began with offerings to Eirene. But Eirene never emerged beyond the status of a minor goddess in Greco-Roman culture. Erich Dinkler cites Harald Fuchs: “Although she is peace, she is not the one that brings peace” (Dinkler 86).
Complementing Eirene as a significant minor deity in the Greek-speaking East, Augustus introduced into the Latin West the Pax cult in order to balance the older Roman Concordia cult. Concordia was directed to internal policy, Pax to imperial policy. Through this relationship, eirene in pax Romana sought pacification of foreign nations to enable concord and harmony at home. Erecting the Altar of Peace to Augustus on the Field of Mars in Rome in 9 BCE discloses the means of pax Romana: wars to subjugate the nations. Vespasian’s Peace Temple, built in 75 CE, celebrates Rome’s victory over the Jews, depicted on the famous Arch of Titus.
Pax Romana promised prosperity and order with one worldwide Greco-Roman language and culture. These features superficially accord with Hebrew salom. But the people subjugated under pax Romana suffered oppression in Rome’s “golden age” of prosperity, thus mocking salom (Wengst 7-51).
The degree of influence that classical Greek eirene had on NT writers is unclear (Dinkler), for NT uses of eirene clearly extend OT salom (the LXX translates salom with eirene). The word peace occurs in every NT book except 1 John, with the majority of occurrences (sixty-five) in Paul and Luke-Acts. In the NT Epistles eirene joins “grace” (charis) as a recurring salutation. Theologically toned, the eirene greeting evokes gratitude for God’s salvation and the faith community (Mauser 107-8). Studies of NT theology and ethics often miss or marginalize peace—a curious anomaly (Swartley, Covenant of Peace, 3-8, 431-70). While nonviolence, widely noted, seeks to correct injustice, peacemaking seeks positive initiatives to overcome evil with good.
Whereas worship of Eirene celebrated destruction of enemies, NT eirene, God’s gift, reconciles former enemies through Christ, killing the enmity (Eph. 2:15-16). Like salom in the OT, eirene in the NT joins other important theological and ethical motifs (kingdom of God, salvation, Christology, ecclesiology, mission) and moral imperatives: love of enemy, nonretaliation, reconciliation.
Each Gospel has its distinctive peace/peacemak-ing emphasis. Jesus’ pronouncement, “Blessed are the peacemakers [eirenopoioi]” (Matt. 5:9) characterizes Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom (Matt. 4:17, 23), calling people to righteousness/justice (dikaiosyne in the Beatitudes [Matt. 5:6, 10]) and exhorting, “Love your enemies” (Matt. 5:44). Peacemaking and love of enemy mark identity as God’s children. The Sermon on the Mount has fourteen triads, each one culminating in a positive initiative that breaks the cycle of human violence. Each seeks to transform the situation, person, and/ or relationship. These transforming initiatives make peace, empowered by God’s grace-based deliverance, echoing Isaiah (Stassen, “Fourteen Triads,” 308; Stassen and Gushee 125-45).
Jesus calls his disciples to be at peace with one another (Mark 9:50), contrasting the kingdom ethic to the disciples’ rivalry and aspirations to greatness (Mark 9:33-34; 10:35-37). Humble service contrasts to the gentile rulers’ domination (Mark 10:41-45). Jesus’ ministry encounters fierce opposition. Hence, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword” (Matt. 10:34 [cf. “division” in Luke 12:51]) describes Jesus’ battle against Satan; Jesus’ kingdom collides with Satan’s dominion (Mauser 44-45).
In Luke’s Gospel eirene occurs fourteen times, mostly in content not in the other Gospels, and with structural significance. Three occur in the birth narratives: Zechariah concluding his prophecy with “to guide our feet into the way of peace” (1:79); angels proclaiming “peace on earth” at the birth announcement of the Savior-Messiah (2:14); Simeon blessing God for “dismissing your servant in peace” (2:29). Five occur at the beginning and ending of Luke’s long travel narrative (three in 10:5-6; two in 19:38-42). The first three (in the mission of the seventy) announce the kingdom/gospel come near. For the ending inclusio, “peace in heaven” (19:38) is antiphonal to “peace on earth” (2:14), and it concludes with Jesus’ judgment plea, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace!” (19:42). The risen Jesus greets his disciples, saying, “Peace be with you” (24:36).
Luke’s eirene continues into Acts, occurring seven times: four uses pertain to ecclesial dimensions (7:26; 9:31; 10:36; 15:33), three to pax Romana contexts (12:20; 16:36; 24:2). Peter summarizes Jesus’ ministry with “preaching (proclaiming) peace by Jesus Christ—he is Lord of all” (10:36 evangelizomenos eirene, quoting Isa. 52:7 LXX evangelizomenou akoen eirenes, hos evan-gelizomenos agatha, translating Heb. mebasser masmia salom). Luke’s eirene is not an apologetic for Rome’s pax Romana of “peace and security” (see 1 Thess. 5:3). Neither courting nor condemning Rome, Luke’s eirene establishes an alternative politics of peace and justice.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus bestows eirene on his disciples as gift (14:27; 16:33) in the context of the world’s hatred. As risen Lord he greets them three times, “Peace be with you,” which frames his breathing of the Holy Spirit into them (20:19, 21, 26).
Of Paul’s forty-four uses of eirene, ten occur in Romans and eight in Ephesians. Paul coins a virtually unique appellation, “God/Lord of peace” (Rom. 15:33; 16:20; 1 Cor. 14:33; 2 Cor. 13:11; 1 Thess. 5:23; 2 Thess. 3:16; Phil. 4:9 [cf. Heb. 13:20]). With the appellation of “warrior” (is milhama, “man of war”) for God in the OT (Exod. 15:3) rendered “God crushes war” by the LXX, the trajectory culminates in Paul’s striking “God of peace,” consonant with the OT salom vision. This appellation links Paul’s doctrinal emphases to peacemaking (Swartley, Covenant of Peace, 210).
God’s peacemaking unites humans to God in justification and joins alienated parties into one new body through the cross (Rom. 5:1-10; Eph. 2:14-18; Col. 1:20). Reconciliation complements peacemaking (Rom 5:1-10; 2 Cor. 5:17-20). Jesus’ followers are to live peaceably (Rom. 12:18; 14:19; Eph. 4:3; 2 Tim. 2:22). The “peace of God . . . will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:7). Peace is a fruit of the Spirit (Gal. 5:22) manifesting God’s reign (Rom. 14:17) and the new Spirit order of “life and peace” (Rom. 8:6). “The God of peace will shortly crush Satan under your feet” (Rom. 16:20) blends peace with battle (cf. Eph. 6:15, quoting Isa. 52:7).
Hebrews describes Jesus as king of peace, king of righteousness, after the order of Melchizedek (Heb. 7:1-3). In several places the NT Epistles call for believers to seek and pursue peace (Rom. 14:19; 2 Tim. 2:22; Heb. 12:14; 1 Pet. 3:11, quoting Ps. 34:14). According to J ames, righteousness/ justice is the fruit harvest of sowing peace by using peacemaking means (Jas. 3:18).
Peace in the NT has divine-human, human-human, sociopolitical, cosmic, and inner personal dimensions (see Peter Stuhlmacher’s “Twelve Theses on Peace in the New Testament” in Swartley, Covenant of Peace, 472-74). Peace is God’s gift first and foremost, but it is also a task, seeking peace within Christ’s body and witnessing to peace in the world (Mauser; Luz). Forgiveness leads to peacemaking, and reconciliation is its fruit.
Numerous peacemaking initiatives, strategies, and community models contribute to peace, such as Glen Stassen’s ten peacemaking practices to abolish war and promote peace through justice, love, and community. These practices include nonviolent action and reducing threat, offensive weapons, and weapons trade. Other paths to peace include peacemaking education in schools, including conflict resolution and other peace-building activities; teaching peacemaking in churches; forming peace-living communities such as Reba
Place Fellowship (Evanston, IL), the Simple Life Community (Philadelphia), and the New Song Community Church (Sandtown, Baltimore); and national budgets funding peacemaking.
Seeking peace requires truth-telling; renouncing greed, oppression, and violence; sharing wealth; persevering in diplomacy in international relationships; and putting politics in service of human need. Outstanding contributors to peacemaking, in varied contexts, include Martin Luther King Jr., Oscar Romero, Thomas Merton, Desmond Tutu (who chaired the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa), Mother Teresa, and Jean Vanier. Numerous people and efforts have made significant contributions to peace praxis in peace-building and restorative justice (Sawatsky).
See also Beatitudes; Enemy, Enemy Love; Forgiveness; Fruit of the Spirit; Holy Spirit; Justice; Justice, Restorative; Just-Peacemaking Theory; Kingdom of God; Love, Love Command; Reconciliation; Righteousness; Sermon on the Mount
Bibliography
Brawley, R., ed. Character Ethics and the New Testament: Moral Dimensions of Scripture. Westminster John Knox, 2007; Dinkler, E. “Eirene—The Early Christian Concept of Peace.” Pages 71—120 in The Meaning of Peace: Biblical Studies, ed. P. Yoder and W. Swartley, trans. W. Sawatsky. 2nd ed. SPS 2. Institute of Mennonite Studies, 2001; Eisen-beis, W. Die Wurzel shalom im Alten Testament. BZAW 133. De Gruyter, 1969; Gerleman, G. “Die Wurzel slm.” ZAW 85 (1973): 1-14; Hanson, P. “War and Peace in Hebrew Scripture.” Int 38 (1984): 363-83; Harris, D. Shalom! The Biblical Concept of Peace. Baker, 1970; Hauerwas, S. The Peaceable Kingdom: A Primer in Christian Ethics. University of Notre Dame Press, 1983; Hays, R. The Moral Vision of the New Testament: Community, Cross, New Creation; A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics. HarperSanFrancisco, 1996; Kremer, J. “Peace— God’s Gift: Biblical-Theological Considerations.” Pages 21-36 in The Meaning of Peace: Biblical Studies, ed. P. Yoder and W. Swartley, trans. W. Sawatsky. 2nd ed. SPS 2. Institute of Mennonite Studies, 2001; Luz, U. “The Significance of the Biblical Witnesses for Church Peace Action.” Pages 237-55 in The Meaning of Peace: Biblical Studies, ed. P. Yoder and W. Swartley, trans. W. Sawatsky. 2nd ed. SPS 2. Institute of Mennonite Studies, 2001; Mauser, U. The Gospel of Peace: A Scriptural Message for Today’s World. SPS 1. Westminster John Knox, 1992; Ollenburger, B. “Peace and God’s Action against Chaos in the Old Testament.” Pages 70-88 in The Church’s Peace Witness, ed. M. Miller and B. Gingerich. Eerdmans, 1994; Sawatsky, J. Justpeace Ethics: A Guide to Restorative Justice and Peacebuilding. Cascade Books, 2008; Schmid, H. H. Salom: “Frieden” in Alten Orient und in Alten Testament. SBS 51. Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1971; Stassen, G. “The Fourteen Triads of the Sermon on the Mount.” JBL 122 (2003): 267-308; idem. ed. Just Peacemaking: The New Paradigm for the Ethics of Peace and War. 3rd ed. Pilgrim Press, 2008; Stassen, G., and D. Gushee. Kingdom Ethics: Following Jesus in Contemporary Context. InterVarsity, 2003; Steck, O. H. Friedensvorstellungen im Alten Jerusalem: Psalmen, Jesaja, Deuterojesaja. Theologischer Verlag, 1972; Swartley, W.
Covenant of Peace: The Missing Peace in New Testament Theology and Ethics. SPS 9. Eerdmans, 2006; idem, ed. The Love of Enemy and Nonretaliation in the New Testament. SPS 3. Westminster John Knox, 1992; von Rad, G. “Shalom in the Old Testament.” TDNT 2:402—6; Wengst, K. Pax Romana and the Peace of Jesus Christ. Trans. J. Bowden. Fortress, 1987; Westermann, C. “Peace (Shalom) in the Old Testament.” Pages 37—70 in The Meaning of Peace: Biblical Studies, ed. P. Yoder and W. Swartley, trans. W. Sawatsky. 2nd ed. SPS 2. Institute of Mennonite Studies, 2001; Wolterstorff, N. Until Justice and Peace Embrace: The Kuyper Lectures for 1981 Delivered at the Free University of Amsterdam. Eerdmans, 1983; Yoder, P. “Introductory Essay to the Old Testament Chapters: Shalom Revisited.” Pages 1—14 in The Meaning of Peace: Biblical Studies, ed. P. Yoder and W. Swartley, trans. W Sawatsky. 2nd ed. SPS 2. Institute of Mennonite Studies, 2001.
Willard M. Swartley
Pedophilia (or paedophilia) is sexual attraction to children (i.e., persons under the age of legal consent for sex). The term pedophile comes from the Greek words pais (genitive paedos) (“child”) and philia (“love”). Pedophilia includes both the desire to act in a sexual manner toward children and the actual act of abusing children. Pedophilia is unquestionably harmful to children and leads to significant psychological distress and damage, such as chronic anxiety, lack of trust, poor self-esteem, sexual dysfunction, and problems with intimacy and emotional bonding.
Pedophiles are usually but not exclusively male and may or may not be attracted to both adults and children. While pedophilia may be monstrous in its acts and consequences, those who engage in such practices may appear quite normal. Pedophiles can be friends, family, strangers, workmates, and so forth. Although pedophiles often attempt to justify their actions by appeals to love and a desire for meaningful relationship, the power dynamics between adults and children make it impossible for a child to give informed consent. Pedophiles use various methods to groom and gain the trust of children and to make them more vulnerable to abuse (e.g., the incitement of guilt around sexual acts: “It is really your fault”). Because the power dynamic is so central to the practices of pedophilia, all acts of pedophilia are necessarily abusive. This is why societies consider pedophilia to be unacceptable legally, socially, and morally.
Pedophilia usually is very difficult to treat. At a medical level, the treatment options tend to be a combination of psychotherapeutic and/or pharmacological intervention. Both are helpful insofar as they can help to reduce both the urge and the compulsive thinking associated with pedophilia. However, pedophiles are notorious for not responding to treatment regimes. Thus, treatment is necessarily long-term and often is unsuccessful.
From the perspective of theology, ethics, and pastoral care, pedophilia raises important issues. What is a Christian response to pedophiles? Should Christians forgive them? Is it true that the grace and forgiveness of God are open to all people? Ultimately, whether or not a pedophile can find forgiveness and a right relationship with God is God’s judgment alone. However, in the interim, forgiveness may not be possible for survivors of child sexual abuse. Great care is therefore necessary in interpreting Jesus’ words on the necessity of practicing forgiveness (e.g., Matt. 18:21-35).
If Jesus’ command is to love God, and then to love neighbor and oneself, then clearly, loving one’s enemies (if that is even a possibility for survivors) does not mean putting oneself in danger. From the perspective of the church community, it also cannot mean pressuring people to engage in the practice of forgiveness if it damages their relationship with God and self.
Similarly, while the church as a community may have a call of compassion to both survivor and perpetrator, the readmission of the perpetrator to the community is a point of dispute. The key question is this: would allowing the perpetrator back into the community help or hinder the survivor in regard to loving God, neighbor, and self? If the answer is that it would hinder the survivor, then it is the responsibility of the church community to explore other ways of ministering to perpetrators that do not involve forced encounters with survivors and, equally important, do not put other children in the church community at risk. The pastoral and ethical challenge, then, is this: how can abusers be given the opportunity to find repentance and forgiveness without these very actions exacerbating the abuse that has already been perpetrated on survivors?
See also Abuse; Child Abuse; Children; Sexual Abuse; Sexual Ethics
Bibliography
Berlin, F. “Treatments to Change Sexual Orientation.”
American Journal of Psychiatry 157 (2000): 838-39; Dorr, D. “Sexual Abuse and Spiritual Abuse.” The Furrow 51, no. 10 (2000): 523-31; Jenkins, P. Pedophiles and Priests: Anatomy of a Contemporary Crisis. Oxford University Press, 2001; Rigali, N. “Church Responses to Pedophilia.” TS 55 (1994): 124-39; Rosemary, K. After Disclosure: A Non Offending Parent Reflects on Child Sexual Abuse. Westview Press, 2006; Swinton, J. “Battling Monsters and Resurrecting Persons: Practicing Forgiveness in the Face of Radical Evil.” Pages 130-78 in Raging with Compassion: Pastoral Responses to the Problem of Evil. Eerdmans, 2007.
John Swinton