NECESSARY VIOLENCE

A Lesson from My Father

Sometimes, violence is necessary.

I know the teachings of Jesus, and I do the best I can do to repress my own violent tendencies. But bullies are also cowards, and that complicates things.

I cried when I told my dad what had happened. I was a teenager—fourteen years old—and I had gone to a summer open gym at my high school. I was playing basketball and I noticed that the game was becoming very physical. I paid more attention and I realized that it wasn’t the game in general; the rough play was being directed at me. A couple of guys from my class, one a notorious bully and the other, whom I had known almost all my life, just kind of a mean kid. I had a history of run-ins with both of them, but no idea what had lit the fuse this night. After we left the basketball court, they followed me into the locker room, pushing me, taunting me, trying to kick me. The more upset I became, the more afraid, the worse it got until, finally, I was able to escape the locker room and hover near the football coach, who was the monitor for the night. But their last words, as I slipped out of the room, haunted me: “We’re gonna kill you!”

Now, I suppose I knew they were not really intending to kill me, but as a teenage boy I wasn’t sure that death wouldn’t be better than living with this constant sickening feeling of fear-mixed-with-shame that permeated my soul. So, when my dad picked me up that night, it was a long and silent ten-minute trip home, until I gulped and sobbed, just once, as he turned into the driveway. “What’s the matter?” I feared the question—the tone of his voice--as much as the taunting at school. I knew his response, no matter what I told him: “Don’t be so sensitive!” Like a thousand times before.

“They said they’re gonna kill me!” “Who?” And the story came pouring out of me, awash in tears and blunted only by my certainty that it would not matter to him.

My dad was a stern man, and impatient; he did not share his own feelings easily, and he had little patience for those of anyone else. But, as he turned the ignition off, he surprised me; he answered my tears with a story of his own. He was a short man--five-feet, three inches tall--and round. He had missed out on World War II because he was already twenty-six years old and had a wife and child, and more to come, but he had enlisted in the Army Reserve and had reported, as necessary, to camp each year and drills as scheduled. He told me, that evening, that they had roughed him up—the other, larger, reservists. I struggled, as he told the story, to imagine it, because I had never seen my father this vulnerable. He had pushed back, he said, even though it was probably futile, but he had kept his pride. “Sometimes, you have to show them a little muscle!” Those were my father’s words to me that night as we sat in his car in the darkness, outside the house he had built, and suddenly we both laughed at the image and the absurdity of it. It was one of my life’s defining moments, an unexpected lesson taught in the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Sometimes, you have to show them a little muscle!

I still feel guilty when I say it. I want to preach and teach and encourage a life without violence. But bullies are cowards, too. And there is this—no one ever gave up an unfair advantage, no oppressor ever stopped oppressing, no ill-gotten gains were ever forfeited just because someone asked nicely.

At the beginning of my legal career, I worked in a small union labor law firm. I had the opportunity, occasionally, to work with the members of large and powerful labor unions but, also, with the members of the small and easily-disregarded unions made up of unskilled or low-skilled workers who could be easily replaced. Still, these workers would go on strike because they just had to stand up to employers who took advantage, offering low wages and poor working conditions just because they could. Immediately, scabs (why would someone chose to steal another person’s job) would come pouring in. Picketers would try to block the entries and the scabs—and the bosses—would push their way through, and there would be scuffles and scrapes and, in the parking lots, cars would be keyed (paint scrapings with car keys) and dented. On occasion, a scab would be followed home after work, and they would rightfully be afraid. The company would file a lawsuit asking the judge to order the strikers to stop—stop damaging cars, stop intimidating the scabs, stop picketing, even, or at least reduce the number of strikers on the picket line. And, for me, that is where the fun would begin. Eventually, the judge would have to give in to the company’s demands; eventually, the injunction would be issued. My job was to make the hearing last as long as possible, to present every witness and piece of evidence available and to enjoy lengthy cross-examinations of company witnesses and to make creative arguments. Just so, for a while, the union members could, “show them a little muscle.” And, that little bit of muscle would pay huge dividends in bringing the company back to the bargaining table. Nothing motivates a person to be reasonable like the fear of being hurt.

I think about it these days; how and when to show a little muscle, and why.

Sometimes, you have to show them a little muscle. Even when it seems futile. Maybe especially when it seems futile.

This past weekend, beginning with the shocking, horrifying murders and attempted murders of legislators and their families in Minnesota, continuing with the peaceful demonstrations and protests in the cities across the country, some carried out under the watchful eyes and unstated threats of heavily-armed soldiers and police, and ending with the marching of Army soldiers with their instruments of death down Constitution Avenue in an odd show of force intended to show strength—I’m not sure whose—has lifted the question of violence to a pinnacle that cannot be scaled without reflection.

Is it violence? The resistance, that is? The rest—the murders of liberal politicians, the placement of Marines beside National Guard members, armed to the teeth for an enemy that does not exist, the soldiers and tanks and missiles parading before an irrational would-be dictator—all is violent, without dispute. But is it violence to stand up to the evil, the bullies, the cowards, and to speak the words they do not want anyone to hear? Is it violence to stand in their paths of destruction, knowing that they may respond with brutality?

Can vulnerability be violence?

The issue of the day for many of us is how to respond to the abuses, the hatred, the bullying, the anger of the day. Especially at those times when any response seems to be futile. Especially when we may pay the price of further abuse.

Jesus tells us to “turn the other cheek.” Most folks read that as saying, “be still, don’t fight back, don’t resort to violence.” I disagree.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you: Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also, and if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, give your coat as well, and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile.”

Jesus is saying that we should not meet evil with evil, violence with violence, even anger with anger (that part is too hard for me). But what are we to do, then? Jesus does not stop there; neither should we. We owe it to ourselves, and to one another, and to those who cannot help themselves, and to the future to do what He says, next, that we should do. Take control of the situation, not with physical violence, but with the courage to be vulnerable. Force the one who has hit you to do it again. Do not let them tell you how much to give; you decide how much you will give by giving more, so that they may realize that they have lost control. Keep walking, even when you have walked the mile they have demanded. Be vulnerable and know that they may respond with renewed anger, but that their new anger, now, reflects your strength in contrast with their cowardice.

We must not advocate armed insurrection; physical violence is counter-productive in this moment. But resistance is essential, regardless of futility. What if the union had scrapped the strike and returned to work in even worse conditions than before? What if my dad had not pushed back, making the big guys pay at least some small price for their abuse, so that they would think twice abut doing it again? How would we feel about yesterday’s murders, and that silly parade, if not for the hundreds of thousands of protestors who turned out, peacefully, in response?

To the bullies and the blowhards, vulnerability is violence. And the truth is that some of that type of violence—well-considered and wisely-deployed--is necessary to the moment. Choose which side of the line to stand on, and hold fast. Remember that those who have chosen to stand on the other side are bullies, which means that they are, also, cowards. Step between the oppressor and the oppressed. Question authority, especially when authority is being brought to bear on the weak, the helpless, the children. Withhold money from those who support the abuses, and from those who could resist, but fail to. (Spend, instead, with allies.) Speak the uncomfortable truths, and speak them into the arenas (and churches, and town halls, and meeting rooms, and school assemblies) where they will be met with disbelief. Demand due process, not just for yourself, but for everyone and, especially, for those who are unable to demand it for themselves. March, even where it feels like your feet are on dangerous ground. Remember that bullies are also cowards! Shout into the darkness of the night, even if it seems like no one will hear.

Because you will hear, and you will know. And when your children bring their greatest fears to you, you will answer, “Sometimes, you have to show them a little muscle.”