Years ago, during my first semester reading theology, I found myself seated in a seminar with two dozen other students and one formidable Professor. We were deep into a discussion of Augustine and just war theory when someone raised the question of divine violence, whether God ever sanctions the use of force. I, fresh with the fervour of youthful certainty, declared that true religion must always be a force for peace.
The Professor paused. “Ah,” he said, “but what then do you make of the Crusades, the Inquisition, or the missionaries who travelled with guns and flags?” And then, softly, “Perhaps the more dangerous question is not whether religion causes violence, but how easily it learns to bless it.”
That moment has stayed with me. I remember being confused and so dismayed that when I went home at Christmas, I said to my mother, “I cant believe such a beloved and respected theologian could ever cast doubt on the ‘best intentions’ of the church faithful.” But oh, how wrong I was.
For the truth is, some of the deepest harm in human history has been inflicted not in defiance of the sacred, but in its name.
This reflection, then, is about the violence that does not creep in from the margins but arises from the very centre, violence sanctioned in the name of the sacred, sad to say, by the religious faithful.
It is one thing to suffer cruelty at the hands of the wicked. It is another to be wounded by those who believe they are doing good, by those who claim divine authority, moral clarity, and theological certainty.
And often, it is precisely this conviction of righteousness that makes such violence so enduring.
Consider the child who is told they are loved by God but must change who they are to be acceptable. Consider the woman who is asked to stay silent “for the sake of the church.” Consider the historical church’s blessing of colonial conquest “to spread the light to the heathens on the dark continent.”
None of these came as shouts from angry mobs. They were sermons, prayers, rituals and liturgy performed in sanctuaries. They wore vestments, quoted scripture, and came with candles, not clubs. And still they wounded.
This is not an attack on faith. Heaven knows I have been sustained by sacred words, by old prayers on dark nights, by the rustle of pages turned slowly in still chapels. But I believe that anything claiming to be holy must be held accountable to its fruits.
The question is not simply, “Is this teaching ancient?” but, “Does it give life?”
Not, “Is it doctrinally sound?” but, “Does it protect the vulnerable?”
When religion forgets its original purpose, to heal, to free, and to reconcile. It becomes machinery, a tool of imperialism. And the machinery of the sacred, once it’s on, is hard to stop.
And yet stop it we must! We must remember that holiness is not above critique. That reverence must not become refusal to love. That love, if it is truly divine, makes room for all, not just those self declared righteous enough to earn it.
This week, I invite you to reflect on the spiritual or moral teachings you’ve inherited:
- Are there ways in which sacred language has been used to justify exclusion or shame?
- Have you, consciously or not, participated in systems that bless harm in the name of righteousness?
- Where have you felt tension between faith and justice?
Then, begin to reclaim the sacred:
- Revisit a teaching that once wounded you, and ask: was it the voice of God, or merely the voice of fear?
- Speak with someone whose understanding of the sacred challenges your own—and listen without defence.
- Offer a word of blessing not to the powerful, but to someone who has long been told they are outside the fold.
Let us be gentle with the sacred—but not afraid of it.
If we are to bear witness to the violence cloaked in holiness, we must be both brave and reverent.
For the sacred, too, must answer to love.
