I am a pacifist (a conflicted one during Bosnia, Rwanda and Sudan, but a pacifist). I also like to think of myself as a realist. My friend Garry used to joke that I said “There would be no Martin without Malcolm” so often we should just give that speech a number so I wouldn’t have to waste the breath on it.

I had the chance to lead some discussions on liberation theology with masters students at Aizawl Theological College a couple of weeks ago. In case you’re interested, we took on the following topics, one a day:

An overview of Black Liberation Theology

Liberation theology and the “historic project” (a 3^rd generation critique and challenge)

Liberation theology and the challenge of postmodernity

Liberation theology and violence

Liberation theology and land, women and Native Americans

(I did one-page conversation-starting summaries of each of these if you’re interested in any of them)

During the conversation on liberation theology and violence, I found myself arguing against that exact same notion from one of the students.

Most liberation theologies either explicitly or implicitly endorse armed rebellion against forces of oppression (and they are not without biblical backing, if they bother to look for it). Most liberation theology also emerges from dire situations and secular responses to it (Cone’s Black Power Black Theology was written as cities all over America burned during riots/rebellions, for example). I commented that the internal active rebellions against the Indian government today were happening within Christian communities in many instances. Was violence necessary, I asked, in liberation theology, and if so, what was the theology behind it? (I also made the arguable statement that Dr. King’s theology isn’t really considered liberation theology partly because it was integrationist, and largely because it was nonviolent in philosophy as well as strategy, and talked about the different roles of King and Malcolm X in the civil rights movement.)

One student in particular said with the situation this dire, there is no other option. I explained why King might disagree and put forward the (arguable) case that more civil rights were gained under King’s nonviolent movement than the armed black power movement that followed it, even though it emerged out of frustration with the lack of effect of Dr. King’s work. I also said many pacifists point to Gandhi (again arguably) as proof of passive resistance as a powerful force against oppression and brutality. And one of the students said, “But would they have listened to King if they weren’t scared of Malcolm X as the alternative?” In other words, could there be King without Malcolm X?

In one hour, we weren’t going to resolve this issue, so I just said he was in a distinct majority on this issue, and I just wanted to know what the theological rationale was for this position if they did in fact endorse violence (which none of them endorsed in the concrete so much as in the abstract). I also mentioned that in Malcolm X’s FBI file, the FBI expressed little concern about him until he moved away from the Nation of Islam and towards engagement with the existing civil rights movement. Nonviolence can be more threatening to oppressive regimes.

I don’t think they bought it, and for the same reasons people in the US don’t buy it—we think of pacifism as a luxury good. We think of it as a nice idea that isn’t very realistic.

Statue of the Great Salt March

I visited the Gandhi memorial museum in Delhi last week. There were a lot of freedom fighters. There were a lot of people working to overthrow the government. But his ideas were so radical AND SO EFFECTIVE that he’s the one with the museum and the statues and people still struggling to live into his ideals. And in no small part, we wouldn’t have had the civil rights movement in the form it took had it not been for Dr. King’s mentors learning directly from Gandhi and teaching a generation of leaders at Morehouse those same principles. From my vantage point, that’s power.

at the gandhi museum

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The stunning city of Aizwal

There’s a South Asian theologian named Thomas Thangaraj who taught at Emory and Candler for a number of years before retiring back to Tamil Nadu (southernmost state in India) a few years ago.

I met him in 2001, and he told a story to a group of us about white-guilt-interfaith work versus interfaith work that honors our own and others’ traditions. He was a PhD student at Harvard Divinity School (many years ago; I’m sure things are different now), and he went to the student mixer on the first night. You may already know that Harvard has a reputation as an open-minded, liberal school that embraces other faith traditions. (Diana Eck’s Pluralism Project is a phenomenal example of this commitment.) He walked into the mixer of predominantly Anglo people, and several of them rushed up to introduce themselves. “Are you Hindu?” one of them asked enthusiastically. “No, I’m Christian.” As Dr. Thangaraj tells the story, they looked at him with pity and embarrassment, as if to convey the message, “What did our horrible and oppressive colonialism do to you that forced you to embrace our dominant faith tradition?” He had to explain that he LIKED being Christian, that the message of Jesus Christ was empowering and comforting and that he was not a victim in this equation. (Be it noted that Thomas Thangaraj’s writings are respectful of other faith traditions, including his most famous book, The Crucified Guru. His students also say he challenges dominant frameworks of Jesus in the classroom in ways that shape their ministry for the good.)

This story springs to mind because I am currently spending the week in Aizwal, Mizoram, at the Aizwal Theological College. I am here sharing some reflections about liberation theology (we’ve had some great conversation about the challenges of postmodernity to the models of liberation theology that currently exist, and we’ve even stretched liberation theology to include some internal community ethics questions). I am more importantly learning about tribal theologies, the theologies of indigenous communities in India (particularly in the northeast). Tribal theologies are a little newer than Dalit theology, which is a little newer than western liberation theologies. (I’ve also just learned about a Korean liberation theology called something like Minjung that I need to look into.)

As a result of these theologies being slightly more in formation, opinions on what they should look like and what their role should be differ. But one problem here strikes me differently than other liberation theologies I work with:

Jesus was brought to the state of Mizoram by Welsh Presbyterian (and Baptist) missionaries. Mizoram is a 90% or so Christian state. Worship is vibrant and the city closes down on Sundays because most everyone is in church most of the day. (This is changing, thanks to cable TV and youth not feeling that they have a role in the church, but attendance is still remarkably high.) And being a culture of respect, few want a theology that says there is something wrong with the missionaries.

Mission in Mizoram goes back a little over 100 years. Latin American liberation theology didn’t have to worry about offending people because their beef was with political leadership that perpetuated bourgeious capitalism at the expense of most of the population. African American liberation theology didn’t care about offending anyone because the people who brought them the gospel also bound them in chains. Native American liberation theology didn’t care about offending anyone because the people who brought them the gospel took away their homes, wrapped them in disease-infested blankets and practiced genocide. And while the missionaries in Mizoram worked in partnership with the British colonial government, their primary impact on the community was a rejection of their cultural expressions. (Interestingly, in one particular instance even this was unsuccessful: at the first revival, the missionaries told the Mizos that their indigenous drumming was of the devil, and they were not allowed to use drums with the music of the revival. At the second revival, the Mizos were chastised again. By the third revival, the missionaries’ efforts to stop the devil drum from entering into worship was permanently foiled. Indigenous drums and dancing during the hymns remain a central part of Mizo worship today.)

Dancing and drums in a Mizo worship service

I visited the Baptist seminary in Aizwal yesterday and had the pleasure of meeting their students and faculty and stirring up a very fun, very heated conversation about liberation theology and tribal theologies. In the process, however, I inadvertently offended a visiting faculty member from the UK who, after the lecture, introduced himself by giving his name and saying, “My parents were the colonial missionary oppressors you were talking about.” (For the record, I didn’t say that phrase, although I probably said something about liberation theology responding to white oppression. Which it did, so I’m not sure I should apologize.) The rest of us in the room (the faculty had tea with me after the large group session) tried to articulate how tribal theology didn’t mean to belittle the great contributions of the missionaries who gave so much to share the gospel. (Well, one faculty member said Mizoram isn’t oppressed or marginalized, so it doesn’t need a liberation theology, but that’s another story.)

I am so inspired by the courage and force of conviction of the faculty and students at both institutions. (I particularly admire the women, with whom I’ve tried to spend some extra time, who continue to serve and challenge and nurture a church that won’t ordain them or even let them serve as elders. That’s another post,

Me, larger than life, surrounded by the elders and pastor of a Mizo Church.

though.) And I believe a “self-theologizing” culture will emerge. (That was the term we all finally agreed would be acceptable to Mizos and missionaries alike.)  But I do not envy the task of Mizo theologians and pastors who are trying to invite their churches into self-theologizing while making sure not to disrespect the missionaries who brought them the gospel that liberated them from superstition and fear of evil spirits (as the missionaries’ son explained to me was the liberating work of his parents and their colleagues). Perhaps the movement’s theme song will be “We shall overcome…but not overcome their oppression because they were actually very good to us.”

 

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…and U of C and PSR don’t even try.
 
I just visited Tamilnadu Theological Seminary in Madurai.
 
Bachelor of Divinity students spend their first year on campus studying, their second year in a village where the faculty go and teach them periodically under a banyan tree, their third year in a slum working with an NGO while studying on campus and their fourth year back on campus.
 
Their Dalit Resource Centre (Dalits are sometimes still referred to as untouchable) has academic resources and a very impressive library, but they also have files of clippings related to atrocities perpetrated against Dalits (including by the police and government–you should see the Hindu Nationalist Party file!). And their primary focus is on working directly with dalit communities in villages. In some instances, activists who would not otherwise get into a seminary are recruited to study here. (I can think of a parallel to Union in that respect, which is part of my deep respect for that seminary.)
 
As an aside, at some restaurants, Dalits are not allowed to drink out of the same cups (30 years ago they could only drink out of hollowed out coconut shells) or eat in the restaurant with others. And yet when I talk to many “middle-class” (is that better, Allan? ) Indians, they say, “We’re a casteless society now.” Sound familiar?
 
In the picture is of one of the research assistants. He does academic work and helps with publishing, but he also teaches traditional tribal dances and drumming and traditional self-defense to Dalit youth. Their slogan is “Dalit arts are weapons for liberation.” (All instruments in Dalit dances double as weapons.)
 
For a concrete model of liberation theology in practice, this place is awe-inspiring.

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I visited my uncle in Malda last week, and he tends to fit the stereotype of the wise India elder. During our first conversation (I tend to think of them more as lessons, but…) he said, “Man evolved from monkeys, yes? Every day I pray that God will make man back into a monkey.” The state of violence that runs rampant in society has made him the classic cynic.

Part of the purpose of this trip is for me to learn about the intersection of justice and the life of faith. It was easy enough to find and make sense of while I was at Iona, because the isolation of that place and the rare air and rich history create the illusion that the fit is natural and smooth. (Obviously for the members of the Iona community, who live in the world beyond that island, the lines are not so distinct. For example, one member was forced to renounce his pacifist commitments when working for the World Council of Churches delivering food to the people of Biafra during the Nigerian civil war of the 1960s, when the military kept hijacking their relief trucks.)

While in India, my hope has been to learn about the application of radical Christian theology to lived experiences of oppression in India, by tribals in particular (the term used here for indigenous people, lest anyone think I’m being offensive). My last blog post highlighted one side of the challenge I face: some people on the margins don’t want to focus on liberation so much as finding peace and comfort in the spiritual realm (God knows this is true everywhere in the world). My other challenge is a slightly more subtle one.

My cousin Bujunda and his family took me to visit another cousin’s family in Mednipur. Before we even left, my uncle warned me it might be a bad idea to go to a place facing so much conflict and so many disturbances due to the Naxalites. The Naxalites are Maoists scattered throughout the northeast of India with particular strength among some tribals and some dalits. They’ve been hiding in jungles/forests and gaining power for the past 30+ years.

On the drive from Mednipur to Hazaribag (where I’m currently staying), we experienced a road block. Villagers’ rice paddies had recently been trampled by elephants, and when the government didn’t provide aid, they protested by shutting down a national highway.

The headline in yesterday’s paper was about 17 people (including 5 youth) being kidnapped and shot by Naxalites in retaliation for a land dispute involving about 40 acres of land in the state of Bihar. Today’s paper talked about the railroad tracks being blown up last night by Naxalites because one of their key leaders was arrested last week. Oh, and they’re texting death threats to the head of the state of Bihar.

Last night at dinner at my cousin’s family friends, they explained that part of the reason the roads in the jungle area are so bad is that no one will take the government contracts because the Naxalites demand payment for the contractors to do their work, or else…well, you get the picture.

When I was in seminary, one of my best friends and I were debating pacifism. He said it was easy to be a pacifist unless you watched the extent of the suffering of those on the margins in, say, southern Mexico. Once you had seen it first hand, you would be tempted to pick up arms with the freedom fighters, too.

Right now the conflct I face is that the resistence I’m witnessing doesn’t seem to be hurting the oppressor much at all, but it’s certainly hurting people with little to do with the problem (and yeah, it’s inconveniencing middle class people like me, who probably are a part of the problem, but the odds of us putting all those puzzle pieces together are pretty slim).

As I learn more about the challenges faced by tribals and dalits, challenges which sometimes threaten their very lives, my prespective will probably shift. But as someone a little nervous about whether her bus will actually make it to Kolkata safely, I’m in limbo right now.

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