Sider puts it this way:
The fact that there is no record of controversy when Constantine used a Christian symbol on his army’s standards and ended persecution, and that the Christian world embraced him and celebrated his military victories, suggests that large numbers of Christians before Constantine did not oppose military service.
In other words, by the time Constantine fashioned the sign of Christ on his shield and led his apparently Christian troops into battle, the church fathers had apparently lost the culture war on nonviolence.
This new age of political power introduced new theological questions. While Christians could (at least in principle) maintain an ethic of absolute nonviolence while living powerless and under persecution, what happens when Christians are granted control of the government, its military, and its law enforcement?
When the church is given the keys to the earthly kingdom, how is it called to bring to bear the ethic of the heavenly kingdom while acknowledging the very real evils of living in a fallen world?
What About When Christians Control the Government?
I have become convinced by the testimony of the Scriptures and the early church that a Christian ought to look at the world through nonviolent glasses. But when moving from issues of personal values to matters of public safety and governance, the question becomes more complicated.
While much of what I have read from Anabaptist and Christian pacifist theologians has proved compelling, I find it somewhat of a privileged stance to take an entirely separatistic approach to government. In other words, I don’t believe we can simply opt out of the conversation of the secular government while still reaping the benefits of the secular government.
I also find it difficult to get around the fact that in order to promote flourishing and have effective recourse against those who would harm the innocent, the state must maintain a “monopoly on violence.” And that means that the state must, at times, employ some manner of violence, or at least the threat of violence, against such evildoers. And in a representative democracy like the United States, where the people collectively hold the authority of the state, that means that unless Christians are living in protest to the state, they are personally making some allowances for such violence.
All citizens of the United States, even those who do protest, benefit from the peace that is fostered through the people’s collective threat of violence against the evildoer. All of this is outlined in Romans 13, where Paul refers to earthly government as “an avenger who brings wrath upon those who practice evil.”
While Christians should work to build communities where swords (or assault rifles) are beaten into plowshares, to imagine that no one in a fallen world will act malignantly to destroy that peace is to hold to an over-realized eschatology. And what is the state’s recourse if not at least an implied threat of violence?
These disparate thoughts within my slowly developing political theology leave open the question of whether Christians can or should enlist in the military, work in law enforcement, or otherwise serve in any capacity where they will be required to enact violence. I don’t have a good answer for that question at this time. (And even if I did, I don’t have space in this article.)
But what I can say is that the question of capital punishment seems much less open to me.
As Christians in this representative democracy, ours still ought to be a voice fundamentally biased toward the most nonviolent solution to any societal problem or threat of evil. This means we should be biased against war—and we should outright decry overt militarism. We should also be biased against violent forms of law enforcement, particularly when nonviolent methods are just as, if not more, effective.
In light of these convictions, I do not believe capital punishment in the United States is the best reflection of Christian values. While an implied threat of violence might be necessary for arresting and imprisoning evildoers, capital punishment is not required for either justice or public safety.
And yet, for some, the prospect of not taking the life of a murderer feels unjust. Even though it is still an exchange of a life (imprisonment) for a life, locking a murderer away just doesn’t feel severe enough to balance the scales.
But many times, these feelings are at odds with the families of those whose lives have been taken.
What About Victims and Their Families?
In his book “Executing Grace: How the Death Penalty Killed Jesus and Why It’s Killing Us,” activist Shane Claiborne aptly draws attention to the often unheard voices of victims and family members who are against capital punishment.
“Without a doubt, some of the strongest voices against the death penalty, and some of the most credible voices are the victims of violent crimes who know that there are better forms of justice than execution,” writes Claiborne.
Claiborne goes on to recount the personal stories of more than a dozen advocates against capital punishment whose loved ones were murdered. Many of them describe how the lengthy appeals process forced them to repeatedly relive the trauma over the course of many years, hampering their healing, all for a process that ultimately led only to more death and grief.
