Love in the face of Hate: A Response to Political Violence

I'm still rattled by what happened yesterday. Many of us are. But as saddened as I am, as much as I'm lamenting the loss of a man who exemplified the exchange of popular ideas through dialogue and debate (rather than screaming and violence), and even as my heart goes out to Charlie's family... I'm also disturbed by a growing trend...

... the celebration of this murder on the part of some who disagreed with him.

It's all over the place, on social media, everywhere. A recent poll suggested that of those who identify as "left-of-center" more than half believed an assassination of the current President would be justified.

Now, I don't want to be judgmental. But that's downright evil. And it's no longer a "fringe" belief. It's becoming a mainline attitude among certain political demographics.  Making judgments about actions, and attitudes, isn't being judgmental. It's an exercise in prudence and discernment. Transferring those judgments about particular actions, and attitudes, and beliefs, onto the essence of a person's identity is when prudence becomes judgmental, when the condemnation of evil becomes evil.

Which is precisely the point.

But before any of us point fingers, we should examine ourselves. We should look at the plank in our eyes that's blinded us to how some of us might be closer to the ideology that led to this horrifying violence yesterday than we'd like to admit. Perhaps, it's my prayer, this will give some of us cause to examine the way we treat each other. And where we've acted unlovingly to those who merely disagree with us, it's my prayer we'll repent.

In the wake of a recent act of violence, we might be quick to condemn, without realizing that the very evil that led to this violence lingers in our own attitudes toward others. While we might not go so far as to become violent, we often promote the kind of culture that supports political violence when we fail to see those we disagree with as human beings made in God's image, as people whom Jesus loved so much he died for them.

Has that "seed of evil" infected my heart? Well, consider a few questions.

Have you ever felt your blood pressure rise when scrolling through social media? That familiar heat creeping up your neck as you read another inflammatory post, another divisive comment, another call to "fight back" against those who think differently? Perhaps you've found yourself typing a scathing response, fingers flying across the keyboard, ready to "destroy" someone with your words. Or maybe you've felt that dark satisfaction when someone you disagree with faces misfortune, a whispered "they had it coming" escaping your lips before you catch yourself.

We live in an age where disagreement has become synonymous with hatred, where different opinions are treated as existential threats, and where the response to words we dislike increasingly turns to wishes for—or acts of—violence. The tragic reality of political violence, including assassination attempts against public figures, reveals how far we've drifted from civil discourse into something far more sinister: a culture that justifies hatred and violence as legitimate responses to ideological differences.

But there is another way—a radical, countercultural path that turns our natural instincts upside down and offers genuine hope for transformation.

 

The Scandal of Enemy Love

Jesus' words in the Sermon on the Mount remain among the most challenging and revolutionary ever spoken: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven" (Matthew 5:43-45, NIV).

The Greek word Jesus uses for "love" here is agapáō—not a feeling or emotion, but a deliberate choice of will, a commitment to seek the good of another regardless of their actions toward us. This isn't the natural affection of philía (friendship) or the passionate love of eros, but something far more demanding: a love that originates not in the worthiness of its object but in the character of the one who loves.

Consider the context in which Jesus spoke these words. First-century Palestine seethed with political tensions, revolutionary movements, and violent resistance against Roman occupation. The Zealots advocated armed rebellion. The Essenes withdrew in disgust. The Pharisees built walls of religious superiority. It was more like our current American political culture than many of us would like to admit. Into this powder keg, Jesus lit a different kind of fire—one that would consume hatred rather than enemies.

The early church father Chrysostom observed: "For what is novel and startling in loving those who love us? Even publicans and heathens do this. But to love those who hate us—this is the height of philosophy, the pinnacle of virtue" (Homilies on Matthew, 18.1).

Yet this "philosophy" isn't merely an intellectual exercise; it's a lived reality that transforms both the one who loves and, potentially, the one who is loved.

 

Burning Coals and Conquered Evil

The Apostle Paul, himself once a violent persecutor transformed by encountering Christ, expands on this teaching in Romans 12:19-21: "Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: 'It is mine to avenge; I will repay,' says the Lord. On the contrary: 'If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.' Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good" (NIV).

The image of "burning coals" has puzzled interpreters for centuries. Some see it as divine judgment—kindness that increases the enemy's guilt. But the phrase more likely refers to an ancient Egyptian ritual where carrying burning coals on one's head symbolized repentance and transformation. Augustine understood it this way: "The coals of fire are the burning pangs of penitence which torment the soul and work its reformation" (Sermon 149). Our unexpected kindness can ignite the conscience, leading to genuine change.

But notice Paul's ultimate concern: "Do not be overcome by evil." The Greek word nikáō means to conquer or prevail. When we respond to hatred with hatred, violence with violence, we haven't won—we've been conquered. Evil has successfully reproduced itself in us. As Martin Luther King Jr. prophetically declared, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

But it's no wonder that those who advance for constructive and respectful dialogue (Charlie Kirk) and those who believe in non-violent Revolution (like Dr. King) became sad victims of violence. There's nothing that the enemy--yes, that enemy--opposes more than those who shed light on his lies, who expose his works of evil. And those who challenge the culture that justifies violence by confronting it with love undermine everything the enemy stands for.

 

The False Gospel of Justified Violence

Our contemporary culture has developed its own twisted theology—one that sanctifies violence as a response to "hate speech," a term increasingly expanded to encompass any viewpoint that challenges prevailing orthodoxies. This new dogma preaches that words are violence, that disagreement is hatred, and that physical retaliation against ideological opponents is not only justified but morally required.

This represents a fundamental misunderstanding of both justice and human dignity. When we reduce those who disagree with us to caricatures of evil, we strip them of their humanity. We forget that they, too, bear the imago Dei—the image of God. As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wisely observed after surviving the Soviet gulags: "The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being."

Now, there's a difference between recognizing acts of evil or even evil attitudes (as I've done here) and judging others as "evil people." I believe even the shooter yesterday was made in God's image, is loved by God, and that God is as saddened by that person's fall into evil as he is for the loss of life that happened on account of it. There are evil views, evil ideas, and false teachings and lies. We have to discern those things. But our response to it cannot be to behave in kind. Darkness cannot conquer darkness. Evil cannot overcome evil. Hate cannot beat hate. Love conquers all, overcomes all, beats all.

The temptation to demonize our opponents is ancient. The Pharisees did it to tax collectors. The Zealots did it to Romans. We do it to those across the political aisle. But Jesus consistently refused this path. He ate with tax collectors and sinners (Matthew 9:10-11). He healed the servant of a Roman centurion (Luke 7:1-10). He rebuked his disciples for wanting to call down fire on an unwelcoming Samaritan village (Luke 9:54-55).

 

The Power of Unexpected Grace

History provides powerful testimonies to the transformative power of enemy love. Consider Corrie ten Boom, the Dutch Christian who survived the Nazi concentration camps. Years after the war, she encountered one of her former guards at a church service. He extended his hand, seeking forgiveness. Corrie wrote: "I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart... Jesus, help me! I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling." When she took his hand, she experienced a healing warmth that freed her from years of bitterness.

Or consider the Amish community of Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, who in 2006 responded to the murder of five schoolgirls by immediately offering forgiveness to the shooter's family, attending his funeral, and establishing a fund for his widow and children. Their actions stunned a watching world accustomed to cycles of retaliation and revenge.

Another remarkable example is Pope John Paul II's response to the man who shot him in 1981, Mehmet Ali Ağca. The Pope forgave Ağca publicly just four days after the assassination attempt. Then, in 1983, he visited his assailant in prison, speaking with him privately for over 20 minutes and offering his personal forgiveness. The two men, a pontiff and a terrorist, were captured on film, hand in hand. This act of grace was not a one-time event; the Pope continued to maintain contact with Ağca's family and even intervened to help secure his release from prison.

These aren't stories of weakness but of strength—the strength to break cycles of violence, to refuse to be controlled by others' evil actions, to maintain one's integrity even in the face of profound injustice. As Tertullian observed, watching the early Christians' response to persecution: "See how they love one another" (Apologeticus, 39).

 

Practical Steps Toward Enemy Love

How then shall we live in our current climate of hostility and division? How do we practice enemy love when every news cycle brings fresh outrage, when social media algorithms profit from our anger, when even family gatherings can explode into ideological warfare?

First, we must begin with honest self-examination. Where have we allowed hatred to take root? Where have we dehumanized those who disagree with us? The Desert Fathers taught that we cannot give what we do not possess; we cannot offer peace if war rages within us. As Abba Poemen said, "A person who is upset can never add anything good to a situation."

Second, we must practice the discipline of prayer for our enemies. Not perfunctory, grudging prayer, but genuine intercession for their wellbeing. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who prayed daily for Hitler even while opposing his regime, wrote: "This is the supreme demand. Through the medium of prayer we go to our enemy, stand by his side, and plead for him to God" (The Cost of Discipleship).

Third, we must seek opportunities for concrete acts of kindness toward those who oppose us. This doesn't mean agreeing with their positions or remaining silent about injustice. It means maintaining their humanity even in disagreement. Send a kind note to someone who has attacked you online. Offer help to a neighbor whose political yard signs make your blood boil. Refuse to celebrate when your ideological opponents suffer, but actively work to help them out in their time of need.

Fourth, we must cultivate communities that model a different way. The church should be a laboratory of enemy love, a place where people of different backgrounds, opinions, and experiences learn to love one another despite their differences. That doesn't mean we merely "accept" evil and disordered lifestyles, it doesn't mean we set aside our biblical worldview and ethic, but it means that we embrace people as people, and where we disagree, we speak the truth in love. We don't cast out those who live in ways that contradict our Christian ethic, but we embrace them, we eat with them (as Jesus ate with sinners, without justifying their sins) and we walk alongside them as beacons of the truth. Our love will ultimately be more convincing than our arguments, our proof-texting about their lifestyle, and the like. As Stanley Hauerwas argues, the church doesn't have a social ethic; it is a social ethic, demonstrating to the world that another way is possible.

 

The Ultimate Example

Ultimately, the call to love our enemies finds its most radical and challenging expression not in the stories of a pope, an Amish community, or a concentration camp survivor, but in the story of the cross. Jesus' death on Calvary wasn't a political statement or a tactical defeat; it was the ultimate demonstration of enemy love. He didn't just forgive his persecutors; he died for them. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," he prayed from the cross, in the midst of the very violence perpetrated against him.

What we're called to as Christians is a high challenge—we should be more ready to sacrifice ourselves, to die for our enemies, than we are willing to do them harm. This is the paradoxical, shocking, and radical heart of the gospel. The cross stands as a permanent rebuke to our instinct for vengeance and a testament to the transformative power of a love so profound it would rather die for its enemies than conquer them with force. It is this love, and this love alone, that has the power to save not only this nation, but the entire world.

 

God's Peace,

Judah