The Problem We Cannot Outrun
There is a habit in Western theology so old it feels like air. It is the habit of imagining God as the supreme instance of coercive power — the divine despot who commands and compels, whose omnipotence is measured by the capacity to override, to force, to win by overwhelming whatever resists. Alfred North Whitehead named this the deep idolatry: “the fashioning of God in the image of the Egyptian, Persian, and Roman imperial rulers.” The lawyers of Caesar edited the theological tradition, and what they left us — however beautifully adorned with liturgy and doctrine — is a God who looks disturbingly like the powers Jesus spent his ministry opposing.
This is not merely an intellectual error. Metaphysical mistakes have consequences in the body politic. When divine power is modeled on domination, human ethics tends to follow suit. The community that worships a God of coercive omnipotence will, consciously or not, reach for coercive solutions when it feels threatened enough. History has not been kind in disconfirming this pattern. We would rather work like cross-builders than cross-bearers — and we have built plenty of crosses for the right people while calling it faithfulness.
The argument of this essay is that nonviolence is not a secondary ethical application of Christian faith, a political strategy recommended for pragmatic reasons, or a counsel of perfection for those with the luxury to afford it. Nonviolence is a metaphysical revelation. It is a disclosure, worked out across the long history of the cosmos and concentrated in the particular life of a first-century Jewish peasant, of the actual structure of divine agency in the world. To practice nonviolence is not to be naive about power. It is to have grasped what kind of power is real — and what kind is, in the end, a very impressive but ultimately impotent imitation.
To make this argument I will need to do three things that tend to be kept politely separate: tell the truth about the metaphysics, stay close to the history, and let the existential stakes remain personal. This is, after all, a disciple’s discipline. Christology is not what you do when you have achieved sufficient theoretical distance from the claims. It is what you do when you can no longer know yourself — before God, neighbor, and enemy — apart from the one you call the Christ. The metaphysics matters because bad metaphysics produces bad discipleship. And if the God who meets us moment to moment is the God revealed in the crucified one, then the shape of our lives in response to that God is not separable from the content of what we believe about power.
Plato’s Discovery and Its Theological Implications
Begin with a philosophical claim so counterintuitive that Whitehead called it the greatest intellectual discovery in the history of religion. It comes from Plato, and it is this: “the divine element in the world is to be conceived as a persuasive agency and not as a coercive agency.” The creation of the civilized world — to whatever degree civilization has been achieved — is “the victory of persuasion over force.”
This seems obvious until you realize how thoroughly we have resisted it. The default assumption of most power-thinking, in theology and politics alike, is that ultimate power is unilateral: the capacity to effect an outcome regardless of any resistance, to produce a result without being affected by the process. Bernard Loomer called this unilateral power — the ability to act upon the world without being acted upon in return. It is the power of the conqueror, the tyrant, the unmoved mover. And it has functioned, more often than we care to admit, as the operative model of divine omnipotence.
The process tradition argues that unilateral power is not actually a description of the highest power. It is a description of the most impoverished kind. John Cobb makes the point with surgical precision: when a parent finally resorts to physical force to compel a child’s compliance, this is not evidence of superior power. It is evidence that the power the parent actually wants — the power to be genuinely heard, to influence by persuasion, to call forth rather than coerce — has been exhausted. “The exercise of this kind of power can kill, but it cannot quicken.” To model God on coercion is to model God on failure.
What does a non-coercive account of divine power actually look like? In the open and relational framework, every moment of becoming involves three active powers: the inheritance of the past, the gift of possibility, and the responsibility of freedom. Nothing new enters the world without God — “apart from the intervention of God, there could be nothing new in the world, and no order in the world.” But God’s contribution to each moment is not coercive determination. It is the offering of what is most valuable given exactly what has been inherited — the “initial aim,” Whitehead calls it, which represents the best for this impasse, the ideal possibility for harmony and intensity in this specific situation. The creature remains genuinely free to receive it, resist it, or barely notice it. God persuades. God does not compel.
What this means for the question of divine omnipotence is significant. We can still use the term, Cobb says, but its meaning is “quite altered”: rather than a monopoly of power, divine omnipotence means God “exercises the optimum persuasive power in relation to whatever is.” This is not weakness in disguise. It is a claim about what power looks like when it is in the service of love rather than in the service of domination. “The true good,” Loomer wrote, “is an emergent from deeply mutual relationships.” A God of genuine relational power is more powerful than a coercive despot — not because relational power can always get what it wants, but because what it wants is a world with genuine life in it, and you cannot coerce life into existence. You can only invite it.
The Galilean Vision: What Plato Divined, Jesus Enacted
Plato’s insight was philosophical. What the life of Christ disclosed was the same truth enacted in history, and the enactment changes everything. Whitehead understood this. Christianity’s irreducible claim, he wrote, is “the appeal to the life of Christ as a revelation of the nature of God and of his agency in the world.” Not a theory about God. Not a set of propositions to be affirmed. A life — and a specific, strange, historically particular life at that.
The details of that life are themselves the theological argument. The Mother, the Child, and the bare manger. The lowly man, homeless and self-forgetful, his message of peace, love, and sympathy. The suffering, the agony, the tender words as life ebbed, and the final apparent despair — and the whole carrying, Whitehead dares to say, “the authority of supreme victory.” This is not the profile of omnipotence as most theology has imagined it. It is its inversion.
What erupted among the Galilean peasantry was what Whitehead called “impracticable ethics” — forgiveness stretched to seventy times seven, love of enemies, the blessing of those who curse you. By the standards of the Roman legions, this is not a competing form of power. It is the refusal of power’s logic altogether. And yet that refusal has proven more historically durable than any of the empires that sought to extinguish it. The “brief Galilean vision of humility,” Whitehead observed, “flickered through the ages, uncertainly.” What this essay wants to argue is that it flickered because it could not be finally extinguished — because it was not merely a beautiful ethical vision but a disclosure of what is most fundamentally true about the structure of reality.
The deeper idolatry Whitehead identifies — the fashioning of God in the image of imperial rulers — did not stay in the realm of doctrine. It shaped discipleship. It is worth naming precisely: we would rather God work like Caesar than the Crucified One. And we would rather work like cross-builders than cross-bearers. This is not an accusation leveled at bad actors. It is a description of the gravity that pulls even those who love Jesus away from the shape of his life and toward the logic of domination. Peter confesses “You are the Christ, son of the living God” — gets the title right — and a few chapters later tries to redirect Jesus away from Jerusalem. You can confess Christ correctly and still be pulling in entirely the wrong direction.
What the Galilean vision actually looks like in practice appears with stunning clarity in Luke 4, at the opening of Jesus’s public ministry. He stands in the synagogue at Nazareth, unrolls Isaiah, and reads the announcement: good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, freedom for the oppressed, the year of the Lord’s favor. Then he sits down and says, “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” What he does not read is the line immediately following in Isaiah — “the day of vengeance of our God.”15 He inherits the tradition, cuts the violence, and doubles the blessing. And then, when the crowd is still nodding in approval, he extends the horizon: this anointing, this favor, is for the Gentile widow in Sidon, the Syrian leper Naaman. For the outsider. For the one his audience had good theological reasons to exclude. And then they try to run him off a cliff.
If you want to know what nonviolence looks like as a hermeneutical practice, this is it: you receive the tradition, you honor its depth and weight, and then you cut the retribution and double the blessing of the other. You do not abandon the inheritance. You receive it more faithfully than those who have used it to justify exclusion. This is what the cosmos has been doing all along — the gift of possibility always oriented toward greater intensity of value, greater depth of connection, greater mutuality. Jesus is not departing from the metaphysical structure of reality. He is its most concentrated expression.
The Incarnation as the Logic of Investment Made Flesh
Here is where I want to be clear about what the open and relational framework does and does not claim about the incarnation. It does not claim that Jesus was simply an ideal example of human responsiveness to God’s lure, inspiring but not finally different from any other deeply faithful person. That account does not take the incarnation seriously enough. But it also does not claim that the incarnation required a divine invasion from outside — a breach of the integrity of creation, a supernatural exception to the way things work. That account takes the incarnation seriously in the wrong way.
The claim is more interesting than either. In the open and relational framework, every moment of becoming is already a union of God and world. The gift of possibility that meets each occasion is God giving God’s self to that moment — in whatever measure the moment can receive it. This is not occasional, not special, not reserved for religious experience. It is the metaphysical structure of existence. What the incarnation in Jesus represents is not the first time God met the world in love, but the culmination of a history in which that meeting was received with increasing depth, fidelity, and consequence.
Think about Mary singing the Magnificat — “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” Where did she get that? She was remixing what she heard at synagogue. She inherited prophetic Judaism, and she inherited it deeply enough to name in the presence of the child in her womb what God had been doing all along. What is born from that inheritance, born from Israel’s long and costly and imperfect responsiveness to the divine lure through centuries of covenant, is not an aberration in the history of God’s relationship with the world. It is the fruit of it.
There is an image in the Didache, a First Century Catechism, that captures this organically: Jesus as “the fruit of the vine of David.” This is not poetry alongside the theology. This is the theology. Fruit doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It doesn’t arrive by divine fiat independent of the vine. If there is no vine, there is no fruit. The depth of the divine investment embodied in Jesus’ life is not his alone — it is the accumulated fidelity of Israel’s history with God, the covenantal tradition in which Mary’s song was already possible before Jesus ever drew breath.
Within this framework, what makes Jesus distinctive is not that God replaced his humanity with divinity, but that his humanity was so faithfully oriented to the divine lure in each moment that he became what every moment of becoming is invited toward: the image of the invisible God. The question is not sinlessness in the sense of some metaphysical exemption from the conditions of creaturely existence. The question is faithfulness — moment-to-moment, Spirit-filled, kenotic fidelity to the one he called Abba. And that faithfulness, accumulated across his life, accumulated across Israel’s history that formed him, accumulated across the cosmos’s long story of God’s Self-investment in the world — that faithfulness is precisely what becomes flesh in him.
This matters enormously for the nonviolence argument. The incarnation is not God overriding the world from outside. It is God’s patient, persuasive, self-investing love arriving at its most concentrated historical expression. The mode of the incarnation is itself a form of nonviolence. God does not coerce the world into producing Jesus. God invites, accompanies, sustains, and finally meets the world in the one whose faithfulness makes that meeting visible. What is disclosed in the incarnation is not an exception to the metaphysical structure of the cosmos. It is its intensification.
The Cross as Metaphysical Revelation
The cross is where every comfortable account of God’s power gets destroyed. Not refined or complicated, but destroyed. And what gets built from the ruins is something that can hold both the full weight of human suffering and the unshakeable conviction that the deepest reality is love.
There are three things the cross does, and they need to be distinguished carefully because collapsing them is how we end up with atonement theories that function as ideological protection for the powerful rather than as good news to the poor.
The first is this: the cross gives us the right nightmares. The crucifixion of Jesus was not a cosmic transaction arranged in the divine mind before the foundations of the world. It was a historical response by specific political, religious, and economic powers to the specific threat that Jesus’s ministry posed to their arrangements. His solidarity with the excluded, his table fellowship with the wrong people, his announcement that the kingdom of God was arriving among the poor and the sick and the sinner — this was not benign. It was a direct confrontation with every system that organized human life around hierarchy, purity, and exclusion. The powers responded the way powers always respond when they feel genuinely threatened. They built a cross.
What the cross reveals, then, is not a peculiarity of first-century Roman justice. It reveals the logic of domination operating with its characteristic efficiency. And for those of us who have internalized that logic — who have benefited from the arrangements that produce crosses for others — the cross is a mirror. “We know not what we do,” Jesus says. Precisely. The disciple who has loved Jesus all their life is invited to ask, with Bach’s chorus in the St. Matthew Passion: Is it I? Am I among those who build crosses for the right people while confessing Christ? The cross cannot serve as that mirror if we have turned it into a cosmic accounting mechanism — a transaction that settles the divine books and releases us from any further reckoning.
The second thing the cross does is enact God’s solidarity with the world’s suffering in a way that is now materially, historically, culturally available. Here the theology of Korean theologian Andrew Sung Park is indispensable. Han — the festering wound that collapses into a black hole of pain, drawing the life of the victim into its depths — is not a concept that translates tidily into Western theological categories. But it names something that the Western tradition has systematically underattended: the experience of those who have not sinned but been sinned against. The theological tradition has been obsessively concerned with the sinner. The sinned-against has been marginalized twice — first by the powers that victimized them, and then by a theology that made their victimization secondary to the perpetrator’s need for forgiveness.
Park’s claim is that the cross is the eruption of divine han in history. God is not an unmoved observer of the world’s violence. God is exposed on the cross. The Fellow-Sufferer who understands — Whitehead’s phrase, given here its full weight — is not suffering at a safe metaphysical distance. Through the consequent nature of God, every act of suffering in the temporal world is received into the divine life. Every cross throughout history is met by a God who has taken that cross into God’s own experience. God’s power at the cross is not the power of a victor claiming the battlefield. It is “the power of compassion, of solidarity, of endurance — God strong enough to absorb violence without returning it, to forgive without pretending it did not happen, to work toward healing while still carrying the wound.”
This requires a fundamental reorientation of how we think about divine power. The cross does not reveal God’s strength despite weakness. It reveals that the weakness is the strength — not as paradox but as metaphysical description. “The power made perfect in weakness,” as Ottati puts it, “is one that often inhabits the underside of history, but it persists as an undying protest against the insatiable desires of every oppressive agent.” The divine power at work in the cross is the power that has always been at work in the cosmos: the power of the lure, the power of persuasive love, the power that cannot coerce but will not stop. It is, as Ingolf Dalferth argues, not God choosing to appear weak while remaining secretly omnipotent. It is God revealed as the one whose power is constitutively noncoercive — not a temporary self-limitation but the permanent structure of divine agency.
The third thing the cross does is this: it is a mirror that ruptures privilege. The centurion who watches Jesus die in the Gospel of John arrives, through that watching, at a recognition that his participation in the domination system has just executed either a good man or the Son of God — and either way, everything he has been serving is revealed. The cross “protests against abusive power and unjust suffering,” Park writes. It is the place where, if we will let it be, we are confronted not only with what the powers of the world do to the innocent, but with our own complicity in those powers. Some of our most popular atonement theories have functioned, not incidentally, to prevent exactly this confrontation — turning the cross into a theological abstraction that settles the accounts between God and sin without ever disturbing the comfortable believer’s relationship to the structures that produce crosses in the first place.
None of these three functions can be reduced to the others, and none can be left out. The cross as nightmare without solidarity produces only guilt. The cross as solidarity without the mirror produces sentimentality about divine suffering that leaves the powerful undisturbed. The cross as mirror without solidarity can become a crushing demand addressed only to the already-burdened. Held together, they constitute a revelation: what God is like, what the world does to that, and what we are invited to become in response.
Nonviolence as Participation in the Divine Life
The question at the center of Christian ethics, rightly understood, is not “what would Jesus do?” — as if the task were to locate an ancient example and imitate it across the centuries. The question is more demanding and more alive than that: where is Christ now, and are we present there? Jesus gave three answers to this question, and they are as concrete as anything he ever said. He said he would be where two or three gather in an honest community, naming the truth to one another. He said he would be at the table, in the sharing of bread and cup. And he said he would be in the face of the least of Other — the hungry, the stranger, the prisoner, the sick.
These are not separate locations. They constitute a way of being in the world — a form of life organized around the presence of Christ in the vulnerable, the excluded, the cross-bearing. This is what nonviolence looks like not as a principle but as a practice. It is showing up in the places Jesus said he would be. It is the refusal to organize one’s life around the accumulation and defense of power over others, because such an organization is, quite literally, a refusal of Christ’s presence.
There is a deeper metaphysical claim buried here. The disciples, Paul says, are to let the same kenotic mind of Christ dwell in them. This is not ethical exhortation in the ordinary sense. It is an ontological invitation — an invitation to align the structure of one’s own agency with the structure of divine agency in the world. If the cosmos is constituted by God’s moment-to-moment persuasive self-investment, if every occasion of becoming is met by a lure toward greater beauty and mutuality, then the person who practices nonviolence is not departing from the logic of the world. They are living in correspondence with it. They are, in fact, practicing the imitatio Dei — and that imitation runs all the way down to the metaphysical structure of how God actually operates.
Philip Clayton frames this through the inner voice that calls toward care and justice, toward beauty and the flourishing of the other. This is the divine lure made phenomenologically available — the sense that there is something in each moment calling toward the better, toward reconciliation rather than retaliation, toward solidarity rather than separation. Nonviolent practice is not the suppression of the instinct toward self-defense. It is the disciplined cultivation of attentiveness to that lure, the training of the self to recognize the voice that meets each moment with an invitation to more life rather than more death.
The community that practices this together is not merely a collection of individuals trying to be better people. The Philippians text’s use of koinonia — we share in God’s suffering, in God’s joy, in Christ’s faithfulness to the point of death31 — names a participatory reality. The community of the kin-dom is the social form of the metaphysics. There is no Abba without an eschatological hope for the downtrodden. There is no kingdom without the community living into it. And living into it means, concretely, bearing crosses rather than building them.
This has urgent contemporary consequences. The human drive to harmonize with ultimate power — the imitatio dei — is not optional. It will happen. The only question is what image of God we carry, because we will shape our communities, our politics, and our violence in correspondence with whatever we most fundamentally believe about power. A community that worships the divine despot will, under sufficient pressure, build crosses for the right people. A community that has been shaped by the Galilean vision — that has let the cross be its mirror and its solidarity both — will find in the face of the enemy not a target but the face of the one in whom Christ chooses to appear.
First Fruits: The Resurrection Vindication of Weakness
The resurrection is the most important claim in this essay, and I want to be clear about what I am and am not saying. The resurrection is not the moment God finally deploys unilateral power to undo what the cross cost. It is not the divine cavalry arriving after the tragedy to make everything right by force. If the argument of this essay is correct — if the divine power at work throughout the cosmos is constitutively persuasive, if the incarnation was the intensification of that persuasion rather than its exception — then the resurrection must be understood in continuity with that power, not as its cancellation.
To understand the resurrection’s weight, you have to understand the apocalyptic context from which Jesus’s entire ministry emerged. The “resurrection of the dead” was not, in second-temple Judaism, a claim about one individual’s resuscitation. It was a cosmic assertion: that the God of justice would ultimately vindicate the faithful who had suffered under the domination systems of the world, that the pattern of crosses throughout history would not have the final word, that death itself — the ultimate instrument of coercive power — would be revealed as not ultimate after all. This is the tradition Jesus was born into, the tradition that shaped his announcement of the kingdom of God, the tradition in which his disciples heard and understood his death and vindication.
When the early community confessed the resurrection of Jesus, they were making a claim with that full apocalyptic weight behind it. They were saying that the one who died cross-dead — abandoned, executed by the state, betrayed by his friends — exists now in the life of God. And therefore: all those who have died cross-dead throughout history exist in the life of God. Every one of them. The resurrection of Jesus is the first fruits of a promise made to all the crosses, all the han, all the wrecked beauty and truncated lives that the consequent nature of God has been receiving and preserving since the beginning.
Park’s language is the most honest I know: “Until the last lost person comes home, God’s mind and body are nailed to the cross.” The resurrection does not lift God off that cross. It opens the promise of that cross to all of history. The Fellow-Sufferer remains. And now the Spirit of God is the Spirit of Christ — the one who lived the pattern of divine investment most fully, the one whose faithfulness made the invisible God visible, is now the permanent shape of God’s ongoing presence in the world.
This means that “resurrection is the invitation for God to be incarnate again” — the invitation, renewed in every moment, for the pattern of Christ’s faithfulness to be repeated, extended, embodied in communities that carry it forward. The kin-dom community is not merely inspired by the resurrection. It participates in what the resurrection opened. When Paul says that in Christ “all things become subject” — sin, law, death, every perverse relational structure — and that God will be “all in all,” he is not describing a future coercive takeover. He is describing the telos of the persuasive love that has been at work since the first moment of becoming: a reality in which every distorted relationship is finally healed, every wound finally received into divine love, every cross-dead person finally home.
The practice of nonviolence lives between the resurrection that has already happened and this promise that is not yet complete. It is not naive about the world’s violence — the crosses are real, the han is real, the domination systems are real and powerful. But it refuses to grant those systems finality. It insists, against all appearances, that the deepest truth about reality is not coercive power but the persuasive love that has been investing itself in the world since before there was a world to receive it. And it acts — imperfectly, partially, in community — in correspondence with that deepest truth.
Coda: The Flickering Vision
Whitehead said the Galilean vision of humility “flickered through the ages, uncertainly.” He was right that it flickered. He was right that the deep idolatry — God fashioned in the image of Caesar — kept reasserting itself, kept being chosen by the people who had every reason to know better. The church’s history is a long, painful record of that choosing.
But here is what I want to say in closing. The vision did not flicker because it was wrong. It flickered because it was right, and rightness does not come with guarantees of institutional protection. The Galilean vision persisted through every attempt to extinguish it because it is not merely an ethical ideal competing with other ideals. It is a disclosure of the actual character of the divine agency that meets every moment of becoming with a lure toward life. You can suppress that vision for a generation, for a century, for an empire’s lifespan. You cannot finally extinguish it, because you would have to extinguish the cosmos to do it.
Every time someone has refused the logic of retaliation and reached instead toward the enemy with open hands, they have lived in correspondence with the grain of the universe. Every community that has organized itself around the presence of Christ in the least of these, that has borne crosses rather than building them, that has practiced the impracticable ethics of forgiveness stretched beyond all reasonable limit — that community has been, however partially and imperfectly, a sign of what the cosmos is for. The power made perfect in weakness is not an exception to how things work. It is the deepest account of how things work. And we are invited — in each moment, by the God who meets each moment — to live accordingly.
This lecture was sponsored by Humanitas, the Anabaptist Mennonite Centre at Trinity Western University. I was honored by the invitation, and the three days I spent with students and faculty were some of the best conversations I’ve had this year. My thanks to Dr. Myron Penner, who runs the Centre, and to Dr. Shannon Parrott and Dr. Jesse Nickel for their responses to the lecture — responses that sharpened the argument in real time. And to the Canadian podcast listeners who came out after the talk: you made the trip.
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Theology Beer Camp 2026 - We want to let you in on a few things!
Watch this livestream replay for:
a first look at this year’s speakers
more about the theme (because this time, Bren’s joining and she’s bringing lots of dope ideas)
what we’ve been building behind the scenes for October
You can catch the live stream replay on YouTube! Grab your favorite IPA and hop on the call.
2. Our giveaway is still live for another 13 days! Woop woop!
THE GRAND PRIZE:
10 books challenging white evangelicalism and Christian nationalism
2 tickets to Theology Beer Camp (in-person or online) - TWO?! Dang!
2 custom steins for toasting the revolution. Bring ‘em to camp!
And we even have second and third place prizes.
Enter HERE, and catch this post for more details.
3. One more thing…Early bird ticket availability ends this month!
So if you’ve been thinking about coming, this is the best time to lock it in for $300. Prices go up after April ends.
