There’s a powerful scene in the movie Witness that offers a sharp contrast between the human understanding of “justified” violence and the gospel demand of nonviolence. First let me set the stage. Harrison Ford plays the role of Captain John Book, a detective with the Philadelphia Police who uncovers evidence of police corruption — including murder — that endangers his own life and leads him to believe that the life of an Amish boy, the sole witness to the murder, is also in danger. Here the story shifts away from the city and into Lancaster County, where Captain Book moves in with the boy’s family to hide out from his corrupt colleagues and to keep the boy safe while they wait for the trial. The film builds to an almost unbearable point of tension, but along the way there are lighter moments as we watch the city cop adjust to his new life as an incognito Amish.
The scene that I’m thinking of might be regarded as one of those lighter moments. Book has gone into town with some of the Amish men, and while they are stopped in traffic a couple of loutish young men walk up to the buggy to taunt them. Ostensibly they are locals who are looking to blow off some steam by harassing some people who can be counted on to endure abuse without retaliating. The hooligans do not count on Harrison Ford being among their number, however, and it’s not long before they receive their comeuppance from the business end of the action hero’s fist.
For the typical American audience, myself included, this scene delivers a satisfying emotional rush by trading on two bedrock rules of our national life. Rule Number One: “everybody loves an underdog.” Rule Number Two: “bad guys deserve whatever they get.” Throw in the timeworn wisdom that “a man can only take so much before he snaps,” and you’ve got yourself a trifecta of cultural relevance. It’s a great scene.
But if we look at it from another angle, from the perspective of the Amish, who live and die by the New Testament mandate to love our enemy, and to bless those who curse us, and to forgive others as God forgives us, we may not want to cheer so much. In the eyes of one who becomes humble for the sake of Christ, enduring abuse and humiliation and forgoing the assumed right of reprisal, this scene is not so much satisfying as it is saddening. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus tells his disciples, “Do not resist an evildoer” (Matthew 5:39). Peter pointedly uses the same word, evildoer, in his first letter to the churches in Asia Minor, writing, “Conduct yourselves honorably among the Gentiles, so that, though they malign you as evildoers, they may see your honorable deeds and glorify God on the day of visitation” (1 Peter 2:12).
The Amish refusal to retaliate against an act of violence, we see here, is much more than a blind obedience to an inscrutable command, but a vital act of Christian witness, a living testimony that not only demonstrates the new possibilities for human life in the kingdom of God but invites others — even enemies, most importantly enemies — to receive the peace of Christ and to take up a new life of praise in response to this gift. Captain Book’s act of reciprocal violence may satisfy our deep-seated desire to see the weak defended and justice done, but for his Amish companions this act must be viewed with dismay and disappointment. Not as a judgment against their defender, who can hardly be expected to understand their commitment to nonviolence, much less practice it himself. No, their dismay would more likely be in the form of a lament — lament for a lost opportunity, for a broken witness, for a damaged ministry — lament that Captain Book has put on the clothes of an Amish man but neglected to “clothe himself with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness and patience” (Colossians 3:12).
This last part is a quote the Apostle Paul, and it brings us back home to this morning’s epistle reading, where a fellow apostle encourages the Christian community to bear the scorn and abuse of those outside the church with humble hearts, urging them to “rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed. If you are reviled for the name of Christ,” he writes, “you are blessed, because the spirit of glory, which is the Spirit of God, is resting on you.” If this sounds familiar, it is because Peter echoes the words of Jesus, who says in his Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
We are not talking here about suffering for the sake of suffering, as though the Christian should view pain itself as a redemptive experience. Instead, it is offered as a reminder that life will not be easy for one who refuses to obey to the law of an eye for an eye, who refuses to dance the O.K. Corral two-step, who refuses to be held captive to the domination systems of the world — life will not be easy, because the world will not understand, and the world will push back. “Beloved,” Peter writes, “do not be surprised . . . as though something strange were happening to you.” This is simply what the church should expect when it follows the example of Jesus.
When Peter goes on to talk about the temptations that bedevil the church, we should not assume that he is merely referring to the inward loss of hope or the weakening of the spirit. More likely he is talking about the snare of human anger and frustration, the rising tide of emotion that is likely to spill over into acts of violent reprisal, acts that will fatally compromise the church’s mission to be a light to the world and the embodiment of God’s new kingdom. Peter’s description of a wild and ferocious tempter points to this interpretation: “Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour.” Here the tempter is not a subtle whisperer sowing the seeds of doubt, but a fierce beast that lurks in the corners of the heart, waiting for that moment when the will to love has been weakened to the point of breaking, waiting for that moment when the way of the lamb clashes with our longing for justice, waiting patiently for that opportune moment when the way of the lion may conveniently present itself as the righteous, unavoidable, even necessary choice.
The Gospel writers recognize the persistent, seductive nature of this temptation. We see it again in this morning’s reading from Acts, when the disciples have been learning from the risen Christ for forty days and yet still do not understand the alternative shape of his lordship. “Lord,” they ask him just before his ascension, “is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” They have been waiting for someone to challenge Roman domination. They have been waiting for another David to load his slingshot and go up against Goliath. But this son of David shows them another way, and establishes another kind of kingdom, and offers them another sort of peace, such as the world cannot give.
Jesus promises his disciples, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you.” This power will not look anything like the power claimed by Rome or by any oppressor, because it comes from an entirely different place. The power that will come upon the church through the Spirit not the power to harm but the power to heal, not the power to kill but the power to forgive, not the power to control but the power to consecrate.
And so it is entirely appropriate that the disciples should receive this promise in a spirit of prayer. So it must be with us. We must learn in prayer to resist the temptations of anger and violence. We must learn in prayer to wait for that power that is borne of the Spirit. We must learn in prayer to place our deepest trust in the “God of all grace, who has called us to his eternal glory in Christ, and who will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish us.” To God be the power forever and ever.
-Jonathan Hauze
