The Folly of the Cross: Pacifism and Family Safety by D.C. Cramer

“The Folly of the Cross: Pacifism and Family Safety, Part I” by D.C. Cramer

Perhaps the most widespread problem with pacifism comes in the form of the "family safety" objection. As with the police objection, this one is stated quite poignantly by my friend Jason:

What about that husband who wants (and feels called) to protect the dignity/safety of his wife from an assailant? Is he wrong to strike her attacker? What about a father who feels an innate need to protect the innocent children whom God has placed under his care? Could there not be scenarios where the use of force (even violent force) becomes necessary to preserve the safety of these vulnerable and innocent ones? And why would this necessarily be wrong? I guess what I'm asking you to consider is this: it not morally incumbent upon the strongest protector in a household (let's say typically the father/husband) to care for those weaker? Better yet, let's ask, why did God make him strong--the stronger partner in the marriage relationship, as the NT describes him?

I think the reason the family safety objection is so powerful is because it meets people on a very emotional level. One good friend of mine admitted to me that he gets very uneasy when we talk about pacifism precisely because it immediately conjures up images in his mind of his wife being violently harmed. Since my in-laws have caught wind of our more pacifist leanings, they graciously purchased a can of Mase for us to keep in our bedroom. And if most men are completely honest, we do have?as Pastor Jason points out?a protector instinct for our family. And, though some of us may find Jason's understanding of this role to be a bit more traditionally and narrowly defined than is warranted (but that's a whole other topic), I think it's safe to say that most husbands believe with Jason that we have a mandate from God to protect the dignity of our wives and children. So this issue is very emotionally charged to say the least.

While we can never just leave our emotions at the door in a discussion like this, I believe that when the family safety objection is faced with a bit of analytical scrutiny, we find that it at least loses some of its rational force. For those interested in diving deeply into this topic, I recommend checking out John Howard Yoder's brief but helpful book, What Would You Do? A Serious Answer to a Standard Question (Harold Press, 1992). Here I will briefly summarize his analysis and offer some of my own commentary. For the sake of everyone, we'll split up this response into multiple posts.

Yoder begins his book with the observation:
Sooner or later, in almost any serious discussion about peace and war, someone is sure to ask the standard question: 'What would you do if a criminal, say, pulled a gun and threatened to kill your wife' (or daughter or sister or mother, whichever one the challenger decides to use)? It's uncanny how many persons?from seminary professors to draft board members?see this question as a way to test the consistency of the pacifist's conviction that war is wrong. (11)

Yoder begins by perceptively noting six underlying assumptions to the "What if . . . ?" question:

(1) Determinism. "The assumption is that how I respond solely determines the outcome of the situation" (12).

(2) Control. "The challenge at least assumes my substantial control of the situation, if not my omnipotence" (13).

(3) Knowledge. "The 'What if . . . ?' question presupposes, if not omniscience, at least full and reliable information" (15).

(4) Individualism. "The question usually posed assumes that the decisions and what happens are individual matters" (16).

(5) Righteousness. "The logic of this approach assumes my righteousness. Not only am I able to calculate what would bring about the best outcome. I also assume that I am morally qualified to be judge, jury, and executioner?and to perform all those roles in one second" (16).

(6) Alternatives. "The threat to my interests is put by the 'what if . . . ?' question in a way that excludes the possibility that the other party might have reasons for behaving in the way I perceive to be wrong. There is no room for the possibility that the offender might be a Jean Valjean, only looking for some bread for his hungry children in the home of someone who has more bread than needed" (17).

So in other words, the "what if . . . ?" question at the same time presupposes the worst situation and the best circumstances. It is assumed that one's family is (a) completely helpless and (b) being attacked by a blood-thirsty monster who will stop at nothing short of a violent encounter. On the other hand, it is assumed that I, the family protector, am in the best circumstances to (c) assess the situation competently, (d) act competently on my assessment, and (e) divine the moral implications of my actions and those of the attacker.

Imagine if we used this worst situation logic in other realms of life, say, finances. (This seems like an apt analogy, at least, given the present state of our economy.) Would creating a general rule out of a worst-case scenario be a wise plan for investing for the future? I think not. Why, then, do we allow our Christian ethic to be decided by worst case scenarios? On the other hand, would any of us be very good investors if we assumed that we were personally competent to analyze the economy and decide the best course of action?all is a spit second. Again, I think not. Why, then, would we put confidence in ourselves to make life-and-death judgments in a split second?

But if we set aside these assumptions for the moment, we find another problem with the family safety objection, namely, that it rests on too simplistic of an either/or dichotomy. As Pastor Jason asks, "what happens to the husbandly/fatherly role in general when we remove 'protector' from the mix of his responsibilities (or dare we say even callings)?" The assumption here seems to be that there are only two options: violent protector or nonviolent non-protector. Perhaps some confusion might lie in the word "pacifism" itself. Since it sounds a lot like the word "passive," it is often taken to be equivalent to doing nothing. Equivalent to standing by and watching while one's family is brutalized. Certainly this would be morally problematic and unreasonable, even by Christian standards. But biblical pacifism, as I understand it, involves not being passive but being active in the promotion of shalom or peace. It involves looking for non-violent alternatives to settle conflicts, even when that means that the Christian might suffer as a result.

So, before we dive into the "What if . . . ?" question full on, let me conclude today with some questions for reflection. As always, feel free to "reflect" in the comments section as well.

(a) Which of the six assumptions above, if any, am I susceptible to when I offer or consider the family safety objection to pacifism? (Is it determinism? Do I believe that the roles of moral monster and helpless victim are set in stone? Is it control or knowledge? Do I believe that by using a weapon I would be able to control the outcome of the situation? or that I would have enough knowledge of the facts to know if and when using a weapon would be "necessary"? Is it individualism? Have I ever discussed with my wife or kids what they would have me do in such a situation? If my wife would rather be a victim than a reason for me to act violently toward another human being, would that change how I think about this question? Is it righteousness? Do I believe that I have the divine approval or even mandate to pass eternal judgment on an offender by sending him to "meet his maker"? Or is it alternatives? Do I believe that in the middle of the night I will be able to tell the difference between a teenage prankster, a hungry scavenger, or a moral monster? Will my choice now to have a violent weapon by my bed affect my split-second decision-making later on?)

(b) Is my thinking on violence shaped by worst-case situations or best case circumstances? If so, how am I different than the unwise financier discussed above?

(c) How does my response to the "What if . . . ?" question of family safety relate to my view on war? Is there a necessary connection? A contingent one? No connection at all?

(d) Finally, is my view of violence and war guided by my gut-reaction emotions? well-reasoned contemplation? philosophical system? political party? family upbringing? biblical imperatives? something else entirely?

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Monday, March 23, 2009

The Folly of the Cross: Pacifism and Family Safety, II

In my last post on the family safety objection, I noted that it is by far the most common and emotionally forceful objection to pacifism. It seems to strike us at a very deep, almost primal level. Especially for males (not to be sexist), it seems to resonate with our protector instinct. As a family member recently quipped when he heard of my pacifism: "At least I'd stand up for my wife."

Ouch.

But when we wade through our emotions and get down to the actual logic of the argument, I don't think it is nearly as strong as many imagine it to be. In our last post we looked at some potentially faulty assumptions underlying this objection, but for now let's grant those assumptions and let the argument's full force sink in:

There is an armed and dangerous attacker in your house. There is no time to call the cops or no time for them to get there if you do. You have a choice to make. Do you let the attacker harm your wife and kids, or do you protect your family with potentially lethal force. That is, do you use a weapon to defend your family? Your attacker does have a weapon, so what do you do?

As I mentioned before, this argument is typically stated as an either/or. Do you idly stand by and let your family be harmed or do you use potentially lethal force to stop him? But as John Howard Yoder describes in his classic little book, What Would You Do?, there are actually a number of potential outcomes based on your choice. Let's briefly look at each:
(1) Tragedy. This is the option that most of us fear the most. I don't violently resist the attacker, and he commits the unthinkable to my family. I thus lose my loved ones.

But especially for Christians, there might be another outcome for that same decision. This is what we Christians call:

(2) Martyrdom. Perhaps my family member (or I) are killed as a result of refusing to violently resist my attacker. But because of my witness to the love of Christ even at the very last hour of my life, God uses what initially appears to be a case of (1) and turns it into something good. As with the case of Jim Elliot discussed in a previous post, my death is given redemptive significance. This could work one of two ways: (a) the victims, my family, could become the martyrs, or more likely, (b) I, the defender of my family, would become a martyr. While refusing to respond violently, I might still take the bullet, barricade the door long enough for my family to escape, distract the attacker in some way, or in some other way come between the attacker and my family. What better way could the Christian desire to die than by saving his family and the life of someone desperately in need of the love of God, who may very likely be moved by my action to understand Jesus' love in a new way (or if that sounds too idealistic, at least much more likely to so respond than if I were to shoot a bullet into his brain or beat his skull with a bat)?

Yet, if one still believes that my death or the death of my family is the greatest evil to be avoided (a rather strange view, given the Christian conception of the resurrection), there are still other possibilities. Consider:

(3) Another way out. As Yoder states: "Any honest contemplation of the future must admit uncertainty. Never are there only two choices" (27). Yoder conceives of this other way out in one of two ways: (a) there might be some natural way out. Perhaps I am persuasive enough to talk the attacker out of what he is about to do. If he doesn't respond to moral reasoning, perhaps I bargain with him, offering him money or goods. This kind of thing happens quite a bit more often than we might think. But as Yoder comments: "I am less likely to look for another way out if I have told myself beforehand that there can be none or if I have made advance provision for an easy brutal defense. I am more likely to find a creative way out if I have already forbidden myself the easy violent answer" (27). For Christians there is yet another possibility: (b) the providential way out. Do we not at least give lip service to our belief in miracles? Why couldn't God provide a miracle in such a dire situation? Maybe this miracle isn't a literal change of the natural environment, but perhaps the Holy Spirit does a work on the attacker's heart through my pleading. As Yoder notes, this might be a perfect example of the Romans 8:28 promise that God works all things for the good for those who love Him.

So, we've seen that given our decision not to respond violently, there are a number of possibilities, some worse than others: (1) tragedy; (2) martyrdom, either (a) my family's or, more likely, (b) my own; (3) a way out, either (a) a natural way out or (b) a providential way out. But what happens when I do what the "What if . . . ?" question assumes I should do and respond violently? Following Yoder, we'll call this option:

(4) Attempted killing. If my family is being attacked by an armed attacker, as the "What if . . . ?" question assumes, and if we've ruled out a nonviolent response described above in (3), then it appears as though we are left with the response to which the question leads: attempting to kill the attacker. The "What if . . . ?" question usually assumes that the justifiable defense includes using a weapon, such as a gun, if necessary, and that when the attacker has a weapon, it is indeed necessary. The question also usually assumes that if I do indeed choose to use a weapon, I will most likely be able to successfully stop the attacker. But in reality, there are still at least two potential outcomes: (a) I am successful, in which case I have essentially decided the fate of my attacker, or (b) I am unsuccessful, in which case my attempt might only make the matter worse for my family. As Yoder states: "This is then the greatest evil: that I might seek to defend the innocent but fail to do so and only make matters worse" (29). He continues:
If the aggressor has superior force (likely, since he was prepared for the attack), if he has the unthinking drive of the perverted spirit which will not stop for fear or pain (also likely, if he is as inaccessible to reason as the stock argument assumes), or if he is a better shot than I, then my efforts to stop him with his kind of weapon may only make the matter worse. This will cause greater suffering than the option of tragedy. Not only will the victim likely be killed, but so will I, the defender. In his anger the attacker may turn on more persons than if he had not been opposed and further enraged. (29-30)
Yoder sums it up by recalling that instead of two possible outcomes as the argument usually conceives, there are actually at least seven:

(1) Tragedy

(2) Martyrdom
(a) Victim
(b) Defender

(3) Another way out
(a) Natural
(b) Providential

(4) Attempted killing
(a) Successful
(b) Unsuccessful

When we look over these seven options and recall our discussion of each, we find the following surprising conclusion: Though (1) does indeed seem worse than (4-a) as the usual argument assumes, (4-b) is even worse than both. The other four options, (2-a), (2-b), (3-a), and (3-b) are all positive outcomes on the whole. Sure, we might rather (3) over (2), but from a big picture perspective, they are each positive in their own way. But by choosing to respond violently, I effectively rule out these possible positive outcomes of (2) and (3), leaving no room for even the possibility that God will act in the situation by either "providing a way of escape" as 1 Cor. 10:13 states in a slightly different context or by "working all things for the good of those who love Him" as Romans 8:28 states. In short, responding violently shows a lack of faith on the part of the Christian.

But as Yoder states: "To renounce killing (4-a), on the other hand, is the path of trust and faith. It leaves open the possibility for Providence (3-b) or martyrdom (2). It is not lazy; it faces the challenge of creating another way out (3-a). It is responsible, for it prevents the worst (4-b)" (31).

To Yoder's (1) - (4) I think we could even add: (5) I inadvertently use my weapon on my family. Perhaps I'm a bad shot or I don't see my child get between me and the attacker. Usually these scenarios are set at night, in the dark, when I'm just awaken from sleep. A friend of mine describes a situation in which he awoke to a noise on the floor below, grabbed his gun, started walking down the stairs, and then had the startling thought: "What if I'm dreaming? If I'm sleep walking, is it possible I will shoot my family member who in my dream is an attacker?" A strange thought, indeed, but one that should at least give us pause about having a weapon handy. Speaking of which, we might also need to add: (6) a family member uses my weapon on my family (0r myself). How many stories have we heard of children finding a weapon and accidentally setting it off? Statistics tell us that one is more likely to have a weapon used on a family member than on an attacker.

At any rate, in my next post we'll look a bit more at the family safety objection. For now, though, I think we can see that when we use the logic of the cross, this objection is not near as strong as it seems. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Have you considered these other possible outcomes before? Now that you have, does that affect the way you view this argument as a response to pacifism?

If you're still not convinced, let me finish with one last exhortation from Yoder:
Let us move out of the emotionally colored common description of this dramatic encounter and think soberly about the choices it offers. We now see how logically preposterous it is to assume, as does the questioner, that there are only two possible outcomes (1 and 4-a). There are many more. We have no way to judge before the event how probable each of these outcomes would be; but no one can deny that they are all logically possible, and some preferable to others.

If I choose 4-a as the way out, then I don't trust in the imagined course of events, or in the providence of God. Instead, right there in the emotionally loaded situation, I give myself authority to choose that option that is sure to be destructive. By doing so, I close the door on all other alternatives, at least two or three of which could be saving. I do this on the grounds that there is one other outcome (option 1) which would be more harmful to my own loved one than the other destructive alternative. By assuming it is my business to prevent evil or bring judgment upon it, I authorize myself to close the door on possibilities of reconciliation and healing. When I take it into my hands to guarantee that events will not turn out in a way painful or disadvantageous to me, I close off possibilities of reconciliation which might have been let loose in the world. (31-32)

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