Is Silence Violence? Or, Knowing When (Not) to Shut Up [1 of 5]

What Use Entering the Fray?

Some say silence is violence.

The slogan confronts me, as it's meant to do. I'm forty-one years old, a credentialed theologian, a church leader, and a citizen of the United States. Yet, there are many serious social issues about which I have said nothing publicly in the course of my adult life.

I rarely post on Facebook (yes, I'm old enough to be on FB) and more rarely regarding headlines. I do not Tweet (X?) my rants (at least not about politics). My Instagram and TikTok accounts are so far void of opinions. As an old Millennial, I feel good about having (mostly) subdued the impulse to engage in the toxic tendencies of social media.

Likewise, I have not blogged (yes, I'm old enough to have blogged) about most issues that the slogan evokes. As an author who submits articles to publishers, I have not engaged with the topics about which silence is allegedly violence. Again, I feel good about remaining above the fray. My reasons for doing so are considered, but my considerations are not final.

So, as I embark on a new endeavor that is public and opinionated, I'm asking myself again whether silence is indeed violence. What must be said? How might we decide?

There is no shortage of opinion on the internet. And it's not obvious that those opinions make a difference. Spouting off often seems like little more than pursuing a personal sense of being "on the right side of history." The popular term for this reflex is virtue signaling—the desire to be known as someone who holds the "right" opinions, however those are defined. Let's not be naïve: this happens on every side of every issue, depending on the criteria one uses to define "right." The impulse at issue is about letting others know what I think, because my opinions seem to define me.

But this is nonsense. My opinions do not define me, and virtue is not signaled by my public statements. My opinions are bound to change with time (because of additional information, personal transformation, relationships, and much more). And virtue is not a function of holding the right opinions at a given moment but of how we form them, hold them, and articulate them. More deeply, who I am and the virtue that I exercise is bound up with Christ. We need to do a bit of theology in order to balance the scales of evaluation.

So how do we think rightly of identity and virtue in Christ? For Christians, this question should shape our evaluation of the slogan silence is violence.

It's interesting to me that Christ does not speak against the injustice of his crucifixion—or, indeed, any of the manifestations of imperial power connected with it.

With an eye trained on injustice, Isaiah states:

"He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,

yet he did not open his mouth;

like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,

and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,

so he did not open his mouth." (Isa 53:7)

1 Peter interprets this passage in relation to its readers' unjust suffering:

"For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps.

'He committed no sin,

and no deceit was found in his mouth.'

When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly." (1 Pet 2:21–23).

Is Jesus complicit in his oppressors' unjust treatment because he did not speak out? Is his silence violence? Is 1 Peter's interpretation likewise culpable?

I doubt it. Many Christians who address oppression and suffering by "speaking out" need to learn from Jesus. They are captive to a different vision of redemptive action than the Gospels support. Many more—those who are constantly chirping about their own hypothetical social disadvantages—just need to shut up.

There is, of course, a longstanding critique of the idea that victims should accept their fate in the name of Christlikeness, and I will doubtlessly be accused of saying just that. Some of Jesus's teachings deal directly with Christian responses to oppression and abuse of power, and these are regularly said to perpetuate injustice. For example, the commands to turn the other cheek and go the extra mile (see Matthew 5:38–42) purportedly justify ongoing domestic abuse or even slavery.

The domestic abuse example is commonly discussed in connection with the cross, the charge being that Christianity encourages abused women to endure suffering in order to be like Christ. To put the issue in this article's terms, isn't silence about this violence just further violence? Mustn't abused women speak against abuse? Mustn't the rest of the church? Isn't construing the experience of abused women as redemptive suffering in keeping with Christ's example a gross theological error?

The slavery example is especially poignant in view of 1 Peter's context. The verses that precede the passage above state:

Slaves, accept the authority of your masters with all deference, not only those who are kind and gentle but also those who are harsh. For it is a credit to you if, being aware of God, you endure pain while suffering unjustly. If you endure when you are beaten for doing wrong, what credit is that? But if you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God’s approval. (1 Pet 2:18–20)

What are we to make of such statements? Do they really commend Christlike silence to slaves? Isn't this just complicity with the institution of slavery? By extension, wasn't the Civil Rights Movement's outspoken resistance to systemic racism a morally necessary rejection of such passages?

Such objections appear to have the weight of history behind them, and they are emotionally compelling. Of course we can find historical examples of interpretations that support the status quo, whether slavery, patriarchy, or any other oppressive system in which the church has existed. And of course we are moved by examples of public, vocal resistance to the oppressive status quo. Let it be admitted, however, that these facts are not an answer to the question: Is Christlike silence in the face of injustice morally defensible?, much less Is silence violence?

Is the church's willingness to experience persecution in the centuries after Christ violence? Is the silence of those who worked in the underground railroad violence? Is the silence of those who hid Jews from the Nazi's violence? Is the silence of those who give refuge to battered women without making public statements violence? Is the silence of Christians who serve the homeless without Tweeting about the unjust causes of homelessness violence?

No.

Any Christian who objects that these examples are contextually specific is not far from the kingdom God. Silence is violence is a slogan. It cares nothing about context; it is a universal moral declaration. It fails to account for the criteria by which Christ-followers decide when to speak and what to say. No one can accuse Jesus of silence broadly speaking; he was crucified for what he said (not what he did but what he said about what he did). He was a prophet—the prophet. When he was silent, his choice to be silent was considered and purposeful. So must ours be.

So, what use entering the fray? What must be said? How might we decide? I will lay out three critical considerations in the following articles.