For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous man; though perhaps for the good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, having now been justified by His blood, we shall be saved from the wrath of God through Him. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son, much more, having been reconciled, we shall be saved by His life. Not only is this so, but we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.
~ Ro 5.6-11
Know your enemy and know yourself and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster.
~ Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Within the first part of this series, I argued that the way in which we understand the term “enemy” must be expanded. Instead of defining our enemies as those who injure us personally, I argued that we must understand our enemies to include those who injure the vulnerable, and those who injure the people whom we love. Furthermore, I conclude that the appropriate Christian response to our “enemies” is love, and that this love excludes violence — protective, pre-emptive, or otherwise.
In this post I wish to further deconstruct the term “enemy” from a Christian perspective by building on the Christian understanding of what it means to love our enemies. However, the Christian call to love as God loves seems to make the whole category of “enemies” problematical. Although a wise person once asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbour?” some of us are scratching our heads wishing somebody had asked: “Who is my enemy?” (But perhaps the parable of the Good Samaritan also goes a long way towards answering that question as well?)
What I would like to suggest is that Christians should follow the pattern established by God, and laid out by Paul in Romans 5. They should live as agents of reconciliation who offer themselves in an act of friendship, not only to those who are just a little bit hard to love, but to those who seem impossible to love — our enemies.
Yet how can we be the friends of our enemies? How can we know our enemies as our friends? Such thinking appears to be confused and contradictory. However, I think that it is not — the question of “friends” and “enemies” is a question of perspective. From our perspective, shaped as it is by the Spirit of Christ, and our participation in Christ (who forgave his torturers, even while they tortured him and two others) there is now no person so violent as to be excluded from friendship. However, from the perspective of the person who acts violently towards us, we are enemies — for it is this person who reveals that s/he thinks of us as enemies by acting violently towards us. We know this violent person as a friend when we actively love him or her, while the violent person knows himself or herself to by our enemy by acting violently toward us. Consequently, even though we are called to love all people, and know them as friends by acting lovingly towards them, we can still use the language of “enemies” so long as we realise that this language is only appropriate to the extent that it reflects the way in which the violent person understands his or her relationship with us — and it is, therefore, inappropriate beyond that extent.
So, if we come to know our “enemies” as friends by actively loving them, what are some of the ways we can go about doing this?
The first and most obvious way is by following the words of Jesus in Mt 5 — we love our enemies, and learn to love our enemies, by praying for them. Here I am reminded of the commentary of John Stott in The Message of the Sermon on the Mount:
'This is the supreme command,' wrote Bonhoeffer. 'Through the medium of prayer we go to our enemy, stand by his side, and plead for him to God.' Moreover, if intercessory prayer is an expression of what love we have, it is a means to increase our love as well. It is impossible to pray for someone without loving him [sic], and impossible to go on praying for him without discovering that our love for him grows and matures. We must not, therefore, wait before praying for an enemy until we feel some love for him in our heart.
Stott is quoting from Bonhoeffer's Cost of Discipleship, and Bonhoeffer goes on to write the following:
For if we pray for [our enemies], we are taking their distress and poverty, their guilt and perdition upon ourselves, and pleading to God for them.
Thus, Bonhoeffer argues that prayer drives us to identify with our enemies, both because we intercede for them, and because we realise that Christ died for all and that we, too, were enemies of God. This prevents us from completely ostracizing our enemies, from deeming them to be subhuman monsters and thereby justifying their destruction, and causes us to wish for them what we ourselves have discovered — the liberating grace of God. We love our enemies by continually hoping for their salvation, not by hoping for their destruction; this is simply a continuation of Jesus' words in Mt 7.12: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.”
Consequently, I can only conclude that Christians are so quick to hate their enemies, and act violently towards them, because they are spending little, if any, time praying for these enemies.
Secondly, this should lead us to express an interest in our enemies, just as we express an interest in our friends. We should desire to know something of their respective journeys, their experiences, and the things that have shaped them. In this regard, I wish to put an altogether different spin on the words of Sun Tzu, quoted above. While Sun Tzu argues that knowing one's enemies is a way to conquer them, I would like to suggest that knowing one's enemies is a step towards learning to act peace-ably, and graciously, towards them; although there may be struggles (or “battles”) we are able to avoid the “disaster” of violence! Yes, there is a conquest in this way of knowing, but it is the conquest of evil by good, for it is through this sort of knowledge that one develops genuine compassion.
Let me, then, apply this to the example provided in Part 1 — those who sexually abuse children. When all we know about such people is that they sexually abuse children, it is next to impossible to love them. However, if we learn about some of the key factors that contribute to the perpetuation of these acts — say the observation that a significant percentage of pedophiles were abused as children — the door is opened to compassion, and if we actually personally journey alongside of such people as individuals and not as statistics, we may find compassion to be unavoidable.
That, at least, was how things developed for me. There was a time in my life when, due to the experiences of some people very near and dear to me, I would have responded very violently to sex offenders. However, in the work I was then doing with street-involved men, I became friends with a certain fellow who touched my heart deeply. It was only after we had become close friends that I discovered that this fellow had sexually abused children. When I learned of this, my very first reaction was to feel like a bad person for liking this man — now only did I hate what he had done, I hated myself for loving this man as my friend! Thus, it was this experience that forced me to revisit thoughts I had on these things, and attitudes I had taken for granted. I realized, “I cannot cast the first (or any) stone at this man. Rather, I hope that this man comes to know the love of God, as I have come to know that love, and so I think it best to be an agent of that love to this man.”
Indeed, perhaps this means that I cannot cast any stones. As with this man, so with all others.
In conclusion, I am reminded of the words of Conor Oberst, who sings the following:
Where was it when I first heard that sweet sound of humility?
It came to my ears in the goddamn loveliest melody;
how grateful I was then to be part of the mystery,
to love and to be loved.
Let's just hope that is enough.
(Cf. http://youtube.com/watch?v=Z4TueFlXKfU, or http://youtube.com/watch?v=biuHzcnEXf0; the lyrics are much clearer in the second link, but it has no video.)
Humility requires those committed to nonviolence to surrender any smug self-righteousness they may feel, and it requires those who are committed to violence to recognize the supreme arrogance of claiming authority over the life and death of others. In humility let us pursue love and hope that love is enough for, as we worship a God who is love, we have nothing else to which we can turn.
[NB: In Part 3, I hope to return to the question of how we can go about “protecting” both the vulnerable and our loved ones, so bear with me!]

You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven; for He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? If you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.
~ Mt 5.43-48
Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse… Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” says the Lord. “But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in doing so you will heap burning coals upon his head.” Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
~ Ro 12.14, 19-21
The violence of our contemporary world is sustained by the mythic discourse of protection. That is to say, violence is routinely justified as a means of protecting the vulnerable, and, in particular, protecting those whom we love. Thus, troops are mobilized and forcefully cross international (and other) boundaries, not because said troops are “going to war” but because they now operate as international “police” forces. In contemporary discourse, a basic (shall we say “ontological”?) shift has occured in the nature of armies. The armies of the dominant global powers are no longer aggressive forces trained for terrorism and conquest. Rather, they are defensive forces trained to implement, and police, “the peace.”
Of course, there is nothing new about this discourse. Empires have always waged wars for the sake of peace, and, in retrospect, we have been able to see that, time after time, it was these wars which were the greatest obstacles to peace. History has taught us that empires that promise peace through violence are, inevitable, the primary agents of the perpetuation of violence in the world.
Still, it is amazing how easy it is for us to understand this about the past, while simultaneously failing to see how we are being manipulated in the present.
Be that as it may, it is worth noting how the discourse of protective violence also operates closer to home, within our own justice systems. Take, for example, those who are in favour of capital punishment in cases of violent or especially heinous crimes — and let's take the example that is most despised in our society: those who have sex with children. Many Christians support death sentences for pedophiles.
Of course, Christians who are in favour of capital punishment in these cases, generally don't justify their position on the basis of vengeance. That is to say, while the families of the survivors (or “victims”) may desire vengeance, the general Christian public is a little more suspicious of vengeance. In theory, we recognize the dangers of vengeance and we recall the inability to see clearly, or respond appropriately, that frequently arise when we've been wronged. Furthermore, we remember the example of Jesus and the injunctions of Paul, and we think, “yes, although we would never blame the families for desiring vengeance, perhaps it is best if we leave vengeance to God.” So, yes, let us confess our desire for vengeance — indeed, let us fully work through that desire, rather than repressing it — but let us distrust vengeance as a motivating force, and let us distrust our ability to see clearly while we are under the influence of this force.
But what of justice? And not only justice but what of protecting the vulnerable? What of ensuring that others will not suffer at the hands of those who commit such acts? This, then, is where the general Christian public becomes attracted to capital punishment. Yes, perhaps we should never kill others based upon feelings of vengeance, but perhaps we should kill others in order to protect the vulnerable (children, in this case) and in order to protect our loved ones (our children, in this case).
Of course, this form of justice is somewhat suspicious. It risks being little more than an act of pre-emptive vengeance. Here it is worth recalling the example of military action. In our day, we have seen the ways in which pre-emptive military campaigns have been waged by some nations in order to prevent other nations from developing the ability to wage war. In general, we have also seen how artificial such pre-emptive reasoning tends to be. Or, stated differently, we have seen that pre-emptive wars are immoral wars. Indeed, I think that all pre-emptive forms of justice risk falling into the same artificiality and immorality. I do not believe that pre-emptive acts of violence are ever justifiable.
However, I think that there is an even more fundamental reason why Christians should refuse to support the death penalty, or any other type of killing that is premised upon the discourse of protection (here I will leave aside references to the biases, incompetence, and corruption that exists within our judicial system — such injustices have been well documented elsewhere and, although such injustices alone are reason to reject the death penalty, I'll leave it to the discerning reader to explore the research on these things). The primary reason why Christians should not support the death penalty in particular, or protective violence in general, is because we are called to love our enemies.
Here it is absolutely essential to recall that our enemies include the enemies of our loved ones. Stated in an overly simplistic manner, the discourse of protective violence runs something like this: “If you hit me, I'll turn the other cheek; If you hit my wife, I'll fuck you up, motherfucker.” The discourse of protective violence rests upon an artifical distinction between “my” enemies, and the enemies of my loved ones, or of the vulnerable. I tell myself that I am committed to forgiving and loving my enemies, but I fail to see that those who hurt my loved ones, or those who hurt the vulnerable, are my enemies. The enemy of my loved ones, the enemy of the vulnerable, is the enemy who I am called to love.
(Some of us tend to forget this because, coming from places of privilege, we have never really encountered anybody who merits the label “enemy”. We think loving our “enemies” means being nice to the guy who picked on us in highschool because we didn't swear or something like that. Thus, when we discover that one of our dear friends has been violently abused, we don't think of the abuser as the “enemy” whom I am called to love; we think of the abuser as a subhuman monster that should be destroyed — “enemies”, after all, are like that guy who picked on me, and so people who do horrible abusive things must belong in a different category altogether!)
With this realisation, those who wish to engage in any act of violence, “protective” or otherwise, must demonstrate that that act of violence is an expression of love for both the vulnerable and the enemy. Indeed, I believe that it is precisely this realization that led to the nonviolence of Jesus, and of the early Church — this is why the early Christians were told that they could not become soldiers, and this is why they allowed themselves (and, nota bene, their loved ones!) to be killed by their enemies. Once we realize that we are called to love our enemies, then we must simultaneously realize that we cannot kill our enemies.
Thus, if Christians are to live as a peace-able people today, if Christians are “to be perfect as their heavenly Father is perfect” (which means that they are to love as their heavenly Father loves), then the primary challenge which we must confront, deconstruct, and reject, is the mythic discourse of protective violence.
This is truly where the rubber meets the road in our faith, for the most trustworthy gauge of how seriously we take our faith is not how we respond to those who abuse us, it is how we respond to those who abuse our loved ones.

Dear Dr. Moltmann,
It has now been almost ten years since I first began reading your work. Over these years, your books have been my constant companions – they were the first serious theological works that I read and, as I have continued my studies, your writings have continued to be my “first love.”
However, as I have read, and reread, your initial trilogy, your Systematic Contributions to Theology, and various other pieces that you have published, I never once considered writing to you. But then I read your recently published autobiography, and I suddenly felt as though you were somebody I could approach – both to question, and to express my gratitude.
Let me begin with what are bound to be stuttering and inadequate expressions of gratitude. No other author so profoundly influenced both my thinking and living during some of the very formative years of my life. For this, I am forever in your debt, and am deeply grateful.
I fell head-over-heels into your work when, in the first year of my Bachelor’s degree in Religious Studies, a professor suggested that I read The Trinity and the Kingdom. Discovering your perichoretic understanding of the Trinity, and your application of that way of being-in-relationship to politics, ecclesiology, and other inter-personal relationships profoundly impacted me. “Yes!” I exclaimed to myself, “It is this mutual indwelling, this freely giving and receiving, of the Lover and the Beloved, which should define how we relate to one another!” Yes, you say it all so well; the Other ceases to be the limitation of my freedom, and is revealed as the expansion of my freedom. Let us love and be loved!
I hope you do not mind if I insert a few autobiographical remarks at this point. Like you, I have also never been tormented by the question: “Who am I really?” For, as you say in the postscript to your autobiography, “[t]hat question has left me since I experienced the love of a beloved person.” I well remember when I first encountered the love of God, and came to know myself as one who was, and is, Beloved. That experience was, quite literally, life-changing. It occurred when I was 17, a few months after my parents had kicked my out of the family home, and onto the street. At the time I was either homeless or (more usually) sleeping on couches at various friends’ houses, and I thought I was anything but Beloved. Yet the love of God broke through and changed my life, precisely when I thought I could go no lower.
Thus, the driving question of my life is similar to yours. After surviving the firestorm in Hamburg, you found yourself asking, “Why am I alive, and not dead like the others?” It seems like what answers you could find to this question came from the significance of your life and work. Perhaps, you seem to suggest (but never say!), you survived because God intended to use you in the many ways God has.
My question is this: “Why have I had my life transformed by the in-breaking of God’s Spirit of love, and others have not?” You see, after escaping homelessness, I have gone on to work with, live amongst, and journey alongside of the “crucified people of today”, as those people are found in the inner-city neighbourhoods of Canada’s urban centres (first in Toronto, and now in Vancouver where I currently reside). As I work, live, and journey with those who are being sexually, physically, and emotionally, exploited, abused, and abandoned, I regularly see people who are overpowered, and destroyed, by the powers of violence, addiction, and loneliness. Over and over I find myself wondering, “Why did God come and meet me but not all these others?” Regardless of the significance my own life has (or does not have), I cannot be satisfied with the suggestion that God broke into my life, and not into the lives of others, because he had some sort of special plan just for me. God could just as easily use anybody else to do what I do. Essentially, the question does not focus on me but on those others – the ones God has not yet come to meet. Why does God wait so long to come to meet us? Having spent close to a lifetime struggling with your own (similar) questions, I wonder if you can help shed some light on mine.
After I read The Trinity and the Kingdom, I quickly dove into The Crucified God. Reading this book was the first time I had heard of the notion of a suffering God, of a God who is with us, weeping and suffering alongside of us, even in places of godforsakenness – and it is to this belief that I have returned over and over again in my own life, and as I have sought to journey alongside of others. Indeed, in the years that I have spent journeying alongside of those who have truly experienced some of the hells of this world, and who are frequently understood (by themselves and by others) as godforsaken, I have shared this belief many times over and it has often given birth to perseverance, hope, and new life. Thus, I feel privileged to have been able to share your thoughts with many who would never read theology – child prostitutes, rape survivors, gang-members, drug dealers, and so on – and seen the fruit that your thoughts have borne in their lives.
Of course, your thinking has impacted me in many other ways – your thoughts on universalism presented in The Coming of God (and elsewhere), your reflections on the Eucharist presented in The Church in the Power of the Holy Spirit, and of course your many reflections on hope, promise, longing and anticipation in Theology of Hope – but, if I continued in detail, I would not know where to stop. Yet, as I try to express my gratitude, words fail me. “Thank you” sounds so superficial. What can I say? Je vous embrasse.
That said, there is one question that I would very much like to ask you. Throughout your writings, you constantly raise socio-political and economic issues, and are frequently in (a mostly approving dialogue) with the broader themes of liberation theology (despite the ways in which you were personally wounded by some liberation theologians). Indeed, I believe that you have consistently offered a liberating political theology that carries significant implications relating to issues of justice, solidarity, resistance, community, and, of course, love.
However, I would be very interested to hear how you then understand the ways in which your life as an Academic has related to these things. You see, after reading your autobiography and hearing of endless sherry parties, multiple trips to exotic destinations, several stays in flashy hotels, I started to think, “This all sounds so… bourgeois.” Where is the longing that hope brings? Where is the solidarity that love requires? Where is the resistance that arises from our memory of God’s actions and God’s promises? Consequently, although you speak of progressing from “the restless God of hope to the ‘indwelling and ‘inhabitable’ God” I can’t help but wonder if you simply became satisfied with the comforts offered to those who are situated in places of privilege and power.
Now, please, I hope you will forgive me for asking these questions. It is not my desire to be counted amongst those liberation theologians who “crucified” you in ’77. This question is one that is a part of my own process of “faith seeking understanding”. Indeed, it is part of my own process of trying to understand how one can be both an academic and be rooted in communities located within “the groaning places of the world” (N. T. Wright’s phrase). As I now consider moving to Europe to pursue PhD studies in theology, I cannot help but wonder if such studies will lead me into greater intimacy with the crucified people of today – with whom I am already intimately journeying – or if it will lead me away from intimacy with these people. Thus, I would find it very helpful if you could explain to me how your life as an Academic has fit with the themes of justice, solidarity, resistance, community, hope, and love, which you yourself have developed.
Let me try to say this another way. Although you explore the importance of recognising one’s locus theologicus, in your book Experiences in Theology, you do not comment on the idea that some loci may be better than others. After reading your autobiography, it seems to me that you are operating with the assumption that one can engage in a liberating political theology, even while living comfortably in places of power and privilege, so long as one is aware that this is where one is located. What you do not seem to suggest is that this liberating political theology should, in fact, lead us away from such places of power and privilege as we move into increasing solidarity, and intimacy, with those who are godforsaken, oppressed, and crucified within our societies.
In this regard I have trouble simply accepting the idea that the Academic contributes thoughts – analysis, theories, suggestions, and so on – while others, say the activists, actually engage in the practical work of living these things out. I think that such a divide is devastating to both Christian thought and action, and I wonder how much Christian academics who think this way are only fooling themselves. In this regard, I cannot help but think of the words of Slavoj Žižek:
Even in today’s progressive politics, the danger is not passivity but pseudo-activity… [radical academics] count on the fact that their demand will not be met—in this way, they can hypocritically retain their clear radical conscience while continuing to enjoy their privileged position… Let’s be realistic: we, the academic Left, want to appear critical, while fully enjoying the privileges the system offers us. So let’s bombard the system with impossible demands: we all know that such demands won’t be met, so we can be sure that nothing will actually change, and we’ll maintain our privilege! (I’m mixing a passage from Lacan with a passage from The Puppet and the Dwarf in this quotation.)
Now, let me be clear: I do not believe that you are the sort of radical Leftist academic that Žižek is criticising in this passage. I have no intention of questioning either your motives or your character. However, I do wonder how you understand the relationship between your rather radical theology and your (seemingly) rather privileged life(style). Indeed, given my own interest in academics, how you answer this question could significantly impact the direction of my own life.
And so, Dr. Moltmann, I must bring this letter to an end. Once again, let me reiterate the debt of gratitude that I owe you. Thank you, a million times over. I pray that your own gratitude and delight in life would only continue to increase, and I pray that, like you, after having so many intimate encounters with death, that I too will be increasingly joyful and delighted in every new morning.
Grace and peace,
Dan

…what would it be?
For me, there is one question, and only one question, that sums it all up:
Why have you waited so long to return and make your home among us?
This, I think, is the great challenge to faith — a challenge that has not, and I suspect cannot, be adequately answered until God does come again and make all things new.