CONFLICT & RESOLUTION
R eligion causes violence’ is as much a truism of our time as ‘fat makes you fat’. However, any student of Critical Thinking should be able to spot the some/all fallacy. Does politics kill? Does colour redden? Violent politics kills, and red reddens, but peaceful politics doesn’t kill, and green doesn’t redden, and nor does good religion cause violence. A life shaped by religious convictions is neither this nor that – neither commendable nor terrible, but is at once creative and destructive, kindly and murderous, tender and brutal. Human beings kill for their gods, or for their God, or because there is no God and the destiny of humanity must be shaped by great exertions of human will. Indeed, that last category seems to have, empirically, more blood on its hands than most if the history of the 20th century is anything to go by. Men and women kill for faith, for blood, for passion, for soil, for empire, for grand political ideals; for socialist utopias, and democratic ideals, and capitalist imperatives. The truth is that religion and irreligion are cultural variables, but killing is a human constant. On the face of it, the Christian religion may have more to answer for than most when it comes to inborn violence. It places the violence meted out upon a Galilean Jew called Jesus front and centre of its self-understanding; the Cross is its ubiquitous corporate logo. The wrath of a retributive God, provoked by a sinful and disobedient humanity, found its lightning rod in Jesus, the Son of God. Those who cover themselves in
‘
the blood of the slaughtered Christ are saved; those who refuse face an eternity of hellish violence. To hold fast to such religious certitudes surely makes one prone to a commensurate violence. In fact, such an understanding of the central Christian message is a gross misreading of what the Cross is all about. The real narrative of the Christian scriptures is of a humanity addicted to violence – and a very particular myth of violence. Humans have an insidious way of preventing conflict slipping into all- out war between individuals or groups or nations. The solution lies in the mutually agreeing upon a third party upon whom the ills of the warring parties can be transferred. The sacrifice of the victim effects a temporary peace; a sticking plaster that will suffice until the next conflagration of violence. These scapegoats can be individuals, or races, or genders, or creeds, or simply those who are different. Humanity is so wedded to this murderous mechanism at the heart of human culture that the God of the Judeo-Christian story resorts to extreme measures to make us see our hapless collusion in the lie. He sends his Son to freely take on the role of the scapegoat. The Son becomes the focus of the people’s opprobrium and is duly murdered in the way that so many others have been. The scapegoat fulfils his role insofar as an uneasy peace now ensues between conflicted religious and political factions; occupying forces of the Roman Empire and the vassal theocracy of Israel. So
far, same old story. But, this time, the narrative is different. For the first time in the telling of historical narrative, the story is told from the perspective not of the winners, but of the victim. And, crucially, this time the narrative has a denouement; the victim returns from the dead and reveals that he was innocent all along. The murderous mechanism upon which our culture is founded is exposed for the falsehood it is. That central, defining image of violence at the heart of Christianity – a man nailed to a tree – is the undoing of violence. So, does religious conviction provide a powerful reason for killing? Undeniably it often does. It also often provides the sole compelling reason for refusing to kill, or for being merciful, or for seeking peace. The story of ‘Violence Undone’ in the death and resurrection of the man from Galilee has been the inspiration for many of his followers to refuse to reciprocate violence with violence; to break the cycle of violence and counter-violence that shapes our personal and political – and religious lives.
9
Made with FlippingBook Annual report