Ted Grimsrud—November 8, 2023
[Back in 2015, I posted a series of short essays in Thinking.Pacifism.net on an anarchistic reading of the Bible. The series included several pieces on the Old Testament and one on Jesus. At the time, I planned to conclude the series with a post on Paul and Revelation. For various reasons, I have only just now completed that post. Here is a link to the post on Jesus, “part one” of the two parts on the New Testament.]
One way to read the New Testament is essentially to go from the beginning to the end, reading the gospels as the main event and seeing the epistles as commentary on the story of Jesus and application of that story to the lives of the early Christians. In relation to our task of reading the Bible for its political content in light of an anarchistic sensibility, we will find that the apostolic witness reiterates the basic political content of the gospels—adding perspective on our reflections on politics as if Jesus matters. This short chapter will only scratch the surface of an anarchistic reading of the apostolic witness of the New Testament. I will touch very briefly on the book of the Acts of the Apostles, discuss a few texts from the Apostle Paul’s writings, and conclude with some reflections on the book of Revelation.
The story of early Christianity
The Acts of the Apostles, attributed to Luke, the same author of the gospel of that name and presented as a kind of sequel to the story of Jesus, has as its main agenda an account of the spreading of the message of Jesus from Jerusalem to “the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8; in this case, from Jerusalem to Rome). The story reinforces the political message of Jesus—not an overt attempt to replace the Roman Empire with a different territorial kingdom but a political sensibility that de-centers the state and the nations and understands humane politics to involve grassroots, self-organized communities free from state domination that embody generosity, mercy, and restorative justice (these are elements of what I call an “an anarchistic sensibility” regarding politics)—and willingly accept the likelihood of suffering at the hand to authoritarian political and religious institutions.
The general tenor of social life in Acts shows a strong commitment on the part of the early Christians to defy human authority when it stands against the gospel (“we must obey God, not human authorities,” Acts 5:39-42). In Acts, as in the gospels, the “human authorities” who most commonly presented problems were leaders in the institutional religious arena (the Temple authorities and the Pharisees)—but in the Judaism in the period of Acts (the first 70 years of the Common Era) in Palestine operated as the political authorities as well as religious authorities.
The Roman Empire is a somewhat ambiguous presence in Acts. The hero of the book, the Apostle Paul, does at one point declare that he is a Roman citizen when that helps protect him from local authorities. Near the end of the book, Paul makes it to Rome and has not entirely negative encounters with Roman leaders. It appears that the writer of Acts wants to focus on the conflict with the religious leaders and minimize problems with Rome, perhaps to keep the book from being repressed by Roman authorities. However, we have good reasons to believe that Paul himself (along with the Apostle Peter) was executed by the Empire, following the path of Jesus. When read in light of the Jesus story (as well as other New Testament writings and the Old Testament), Acts mainly communicates a general suspicion of human authorities that would implicitly include the Roman Empire. The focus of the book, in any case, is on the constructive model of the early Christian communities as a counter-witness to the ways of authoritarian human structures—empires and oppressive religious institutions.
The most striking of the accounts of the self-organizing dynamic in these countercultural communities is found in Acts 4, the famous story of the early community of followers of Jesus banding together. The practices common ownership with dynamic, charismatic leadership, and decentralized leadership practices. This example has in the years since served as an inspiration for many anarchisticly-inclined political structures.
Paul: The apostle of freedom
Probably Paul’s most famous discussion of freedom comes in Galatians 5:13-26. He affirms that “freedom” is a core human calling and then insists that this freedom is not a rationale for self-indulgence but for service (“through love become servants to one another”). He links freedom with the call to “love your neighbor as yourself,” which is how he summarizes the law. The opposite of freedom, for Paul, is being “enslaved” to an understanding of the law that equates it with rigid rules following and experiences it as mainly a dynamic for drawing and enforcing boundary markers that separate people and foster interhuman conflict.
Paul does affirm Torah (properly understood) and understands its core to be the practice of love and care for others. It would be a mistake to think of Paul’s points in this regard to be about “religion” in a privatized sense. He has in mind social relationships. So, his affirmation of freedom does share common elements with the way many with anarchistic sensibilities think of freedom. Human beings are called to relate to each other with respect, compassion, and mutual encouragement to live humanely. Legalistic social mores and authoritarian and hierarchical power structures can be the enemy to genuine freedom. Free people, in Paul’s mind, will be people who self-organize, practice mutual aid, and resist the forces that undermine freedom.
In Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, he makes an interesting and important argument about the role of the civil courts in hindering freedom and fostering injustice (1 Cor 6:1-11). He argues that the people in the churches, when they have conflicts with one another, must not take those conflicts to court and turn over their relationships with each other to the civil court system. The problem, Paul argues, is that these civil courts are themselves unjust, thus ill-suited to determine the justice of the disputes among the Jesus followers. Thus, Paul on the one hand, indicts the “justice” of the state and on the other hand argues for the practice of self-organization in the churches in terms of their practice of conflict resolution.
Several key themes in Paul’s letter to the Romans, his most detailed and sophisticated theological statement, are relevant reading of the Bible with an anarchistic sensibility. In chapter 1, Paul sketches his understanding of the dynamics of idolatry and how that leads to injustice and violence. The fundamental problem of idolatry is that it involves human beings giving their loyalty to human structures of domination instead of to the God revealed in Jesus. Clearly, Paul has the Roman Empire in mind as he uses the language usually attributed to Rome in his references to Jesus: “gospel,” “salvation,” and “justice.” For those who trust in idols (such as Rome), God “gives them over” to a spiral of violence and injustice that culminates in their minds being “darkened” to the point of actually “applauding” the worst of the injustices—rebelling against God even as they imagine serving the gods with their obeisance to the Empire (1:32).
Paul will apply his analysis of the dynamics of idolatry also to the “works of the law” in Rome when he argues for giving trust to the God revealed in Jesus. Both “Jews” and “Gentiles” practice idolatry that leads to violence and injustice. “God’s justice” revealed in Jesus provides the healing alternative. Such an analysis of the confluence of idolatry and injustice points toward an anarchistic sensibility. It leads to a deep suspicion of the human structures and ideologies of injustice that compete with the God revealed in Jesus for human trust. Hence, the implied call for suspicion both toward the state and hierarchical religious structures.
Later in Romans, Paul develops an argument for self-organizing among his readers. It starts (12:1-2) when he affirms the need for a renewed mind. This worldview transformation surely would include (given the context from earlier in Romans) a recognition that neither the state nor the oppressive religious structures should be given consent for determining people’s values and practices. Following the call to renewed minds, Paul develops a positive vision for social life based on shared spiritual gifts and on nonretaliation. This argument culminates with a call to love of neighbor as the essence of faithfulness to the vision of Torah (13:8-10).
In the midst of the argument of Romans 12–13 comes the notorious section, 13:1-7, that is often cited as the most explicitly anti-anarchistic sensibility text in the New Testament. This is the infamous call, as often translated, to obey the state. In fact, the actual meaning of Paul’s words may be understood in ways that are compatible with an anarchistic sensibility, if not with some pro-violence strands of the anarchist tradition.
The first key to understanding these verses is to remember that they should read in the context of the larger argument Paul makes in Romans 12–13. He calls for a renewed mind that provides the guidance for living genuinely humane lives characterized as mutual sharing among the people, a deep commitment to living at peace with all people, the refusal to respond to conflict with retaliation but instead with compassion, a recognition that the only acceptable form of debt is the debt to others is the debt of love, and—to sum it all up—acceptance of the centrality of love of neighbor in the commandments.
Whatever is going on in 13:1-7 should be understood to serve this basic vision of humane living. It would seem impossible that Paul would have in mind servile obedience to the state and involvement in state violence toward others. So, a second key is to recognize that the language Paul uses is not that of “obedience” to the state but rather of “subordination.” That is, Paul says to recognize the inevitability of governance as an ordering dynamic in human social groups. States of some sort are inevitable as human beings always seek to order their common life. Such a sense of subordination would involve a refusal to engage in a violent revolution to overthrow or abolish the state—an approach taken by some anarchists. However, to subordinate oneself (as a choice, not a coercively enforced regulation) to the inevitability of structures of governance (which we could call the “state”) is not incompatible with decentering the state and refusing to make the state an idol. It is compatible with active resistance to idolatrous expressions of state power—but resistance that seeks to serve the need for humane social ordering.
The general message here is a call to self-organization, to the practice of mutual encouragement and life-enhancing social justice. The lesson points toward the likelihood of on-going tensions with most states that could lead, on the one hand, to collaboration with states that to a large extent are just and contribute to a healthy common life, and, on the other hand, strong resistance to unjust and oppressive states that nonetheless remains nonviolent and allows for the possibilities of positive changes.
Revelation and resistance to Babylon
The book of Revelation has at the center of its concerns the way followers of Jesus might navigate life while part of the Roman Empire. The author, John, presents a sharp alternative: give you ultimate loyalty to Jesus, the Lamb, or to the Empire, symbolized as Babylon and as the Beast. The human leaders of the Empire, the “kings of the earth,” are also presented in juxtaposition to the Lamb and its comrades. Thus, Revelation contains much material relevant to an anarchistic reading of the Bible.
At the beginning of the book, John introduces us to Jesus—the central focus of the book (that is titled in 1:1, “the revelation of Jesus Christ”). John describes Jesus as “the faithful witness, the first born of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth” (1:6). We need to read the entire book to understand the meaning of these three affirmations. “Faithful witness” refers to Jesus’s life and teaching, especially his resistance to the Powers of Empire and organized religion, that led to his execution by the Empire as a martyr/witness. “First born of the dead” refers to how God vindicated Jesus’s witness by raising him from the dead. This vindication is an endorsement of that witness, portrayed in Revelation (and the rest of the New Testament) as the definitive expression of God’s will for humanity and, crucially, as the basis for identifying Jesus as God’s “Son” (that is, as God’s Messiah or, we could accurately say, God’s king). Jesus’s political identity is explicitly affirmed with the third affirmation, “ruler of the kings of the earth.”
Revelation, then, may be read to offer a political alternative to Empire, especially when we read it in conjunction with the gospels. The core challenge for John’s readers, in his view, is that they remain free of the blandishments of the spiritual forces of evil that inhabit the Empire. They do so when they embody an alternative form of politics, similar to the anarchistic politics that emerged in the 19th and 20th centuries—a politics that decenters the state and embraces the task of self-organizing. The tragedy of the Christian tradition is that the opposite dynamic emerged a few centuries after Revelation—Christians embraced empire as a way of life.
The most important vision in Revelation takes up chapters 4-5 and imagines a worship service. This service takes place in a throne room that features God on the throne, parallel to how the Roman emperor was often portrayed. Revelation’s true sovereign receives worship from all of creation. The key element of the vision, though, radicalizes the notions of worship and sovereignty. The One on the throne needs to find someone to open the great scroll that appears to contain the message of the healing of creation. At first, we are told no one could be found, but then John’s hopes are fulfilled, and one is said to have been found.
The first mention of this figure makes it clear that it is a kingly figure, “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the root of David.” This evokes ancient Israel’s paradigmatic king, David, who became in the tradition a messianic character par excellence—the hoped-for deliverer. The sense would be of an emperor like Caesar but even more powerful. However, what John actually sees is a figure altogether different. The one who can open the scroll and deliver humanity turns out to be a Lamb, standing as if slain. But this Lamb is the hoped-for deliverer, a kingly figure, in fact the ruler of the kings of the earth. The vision confirms the identity of the Lamb when the worship scene comes full circle and the Lamb himself is worshiped in tandem with the One on the throne.
This is a political vision. The Lamb as a political figure embodies a different politics than the Empire. Not state-centered, coercive, hierarchical politics but a politics of mutuality, of compassion, of incarnated love. Revelation’s claim, though, is not dualistic. It does not point to a violent politics for the world and a peaceable politics for an otherworldly heaven. Revelation’s different kind of politics is for this world. It is for the sake of the nations. It is a direct, in history, alternative to the way of the Beast. As we will learn, the Lamb is creating a city, New Jerusalem, that replaces Babylon. This is a genuine, historical, concrete vision of the “kingdom of God”—a kingdom with a totally different kind of king, egalitarian not hierarchical, alluring not coercive.
The vision that runs from 13:1 to 14:5 contains the Bible’s strongest critique of power politics. Note, though, that this critique contains a rejection of retaliation. We could say that it speaks to de-centering the state not its violent overthrow. It speaks to a nonviolent revolution of peaceable alternatives to the ways of Babylon, not a violent revolution that inevitably replaces one form of power politics with another and leaves coercion as the core dynamic of state power.
The vision begins with an emphasis on the link between this mighty Beast that emerges from the sea with the Dragon (who we have learned in chapter 12 is Satan—an evocation of the story of Jesus’s temptations in the gospels that links Satan with state power). This Beast, symbolizing the coercive state, is worshiped by the masses and seems unassailable (“who can fight against it?”, 13:4). This Beast is joined by a second beast (later named in Revelation as the False Prophet) who seems to be the Beast’s propaganda minister who manages the delusions that attain worship for the Beast. The answer to the Beast’s power comes in chapter 14 when it turns out that the “who can fight against it?” actually will receive an answer. The risen Lamb stands, victorious, with an already victorious army of “144,000” (symbolizing a “countless multitude” we learn from chapter 7). The Lamb has already defeated the Beast (see chapter 5), so the vision of chapters 13–14 is not so much about the might of the Beast and its power politics as it is about the victory of the Lamb and his politics of love. The vision actually refutes the delusion of the Beast’s power—it only has power that deluded people give it. What is required of John’s readers is simple—recognize the Lamb’s victory for what it is and live now in his way, refuse to give the consent and worship that the Beast requires to have power.
The power of the Lamb overrides the power of the Dragon and the Beast once it is embraced. We have already learned that the Dragon (the power behind the Beast) is conquered by the blood of the Lamb and the faithful witness of the Lamb’s comrades (12:11). The success of the comrades of the Lamb reflects the coming of the “kingdom” of our God and the authority of God’s “Messiah” (12:10). That is, the Dragon is defeated by an alternative political order, pointing ahead to how New Jerusalem will replace Babylon.
Chapters 17–18 present two visions of the fall of Babylon, symbolized here as the “Great Harlot.” Remarkably, revelation presents this fall as being, essentially, self-destruction. The Harlot has been a force for violence and oppression and has spilled the blood of the Lamb, of all the prophets in human history, and of the comrades of the Lamb. We are told that when the Harlot drinks the cup filled with this blood (that is said to symbolize the just deeds of the Lamb’s comrades) that signals the Harlot’s downfall. Throughout Revelation, “blood” symbolizes the way of the Lamb, the practice of a politics of mercy that resists the power politics of the Harlot and leads to coercive responses from the nations, who act on the Dragon’s behalf. John’s claim in Revelation, though, is that nonetheless, the resistance that leads to bloody responses from the Powers is effective and ultimately victorious.
The book concludes in chapter 21–22, after the Great Harlot goes down, and after the Beast, False Prophet, and Dragon are thrown into the lake of fire, with the establishment of New Jerusalem. The same angel who shows John the vision of the fall of the Harlot (17:1) then shows John the coming down of New Jerusalem. The parallels suggest that in fact New Jerusalem may be seen as a healed and transformed Babylon. The Powers that corrupt Babylon—the Dragon and the Beast—are destroyed but we are never actually told the fate of the city. However, we are told that present in New Jerusalem are transformed kings of the earth and healed nations.
The idealized vision of New Jerusalem contains few elements that speak to political philosophy, but we do get a sense of its decentralized power dynamics. There is no temple (i.e., no hierarchical religious structures), no human king at the top of the heap (the “kings of the earth” here seem to have no special status), and a structure of 12 tribes and 12 apostles that seems to allude to shared power. There is an implied optimism here with the kings and nations transformed and healed rather than destroyed. What is abolished is not the state as such but the Powers behind the ordering structures of human life that turned them into idols. With those Powers gone, perhaps the vision gives hope for a politics of mutuality where the dynamics of culture, social organizations, community, governance, and civil society are humane.
Thinking Pacifism 