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hands soil plant by Shameer Pk CC BY-NC 2.0

Abolition is a process of imagining alternatives to the settler colonial, carceral present; it requires modes of kinship and care to replace prisons and policing.

“Abolition is a synonym for the end of the world,” proposed Saidiya Hartman during a panel hosted by Silver Press. Abolition is eschatological, in that it involves overturning the conditions that make prisons possible. Abolition is not simply about dismantling or defunding the police. Rather, it is an experiment in refusing a whole damn system that is guilty as hell.  From the Latin abolitio(n- ), which derives from abolere, meaning to destroy, abolition is about endings and reckonings, or what Fred Moten and Stefano Harney call a “general antagonism” — an ongoing rebellion against the violences of the everyday. Abolition is also creative activity, an invitation to reimagine cultures of punishment and to foster communities rooted in care. 

Angela Davis writes about contemporary calls for abolition as the unfinished work of the nineteenth century and earlier movements that opposed slavery, lynching, and segregation.  Drawing from W.E.B. DuBois’ Black Reconstruction, Davis points out that the abolition of slavery was accomplished only in the negative sense — meaning that enslaved people were legally set free but lacked the material resources and democratic institutions necessary to create freer lives. Both DuBois and Davis insist that abolition requires experimentation and the work of the imagination — creating new institutions, ideas, and strategies to reduce harm and render prisons obsolete. Prisons, after all, do not disappear problems. Rather, Davis insists, they disappear people. They perform a “feat of magic.”  

Modern policing, according to Ruth Wilson Gilmore, emerged toward the end of the eighteenth century in the London docklands, where uniformed armed forces were hired to ensure that the wrong—meaning poor, landless—people did not benefit from the spoils of plantation slavery: “mineral extraction, stolen land, industrial manufacture.” Across the Americas, policing began with slave patrols — created and maintained to protect private property, to prevent revolt, and to maintain the plantation economy. Maroon societies throughout the hemisphere formed autonomous communities in the swamps, mountains, and everglades — plotting against plantations, engaging in fugitive activity. Robin D.G. Kelley and Earl Lewis note that, as early as 1617, free Black settlements in North America were committed to getting and staying free, practicing abolitionist worlds in the present. Maroons, runaways, palenques, and quilombos threatened slavery and capital accumulation through what Cedric J. Robinson terms a Black Radical Tradition — practicing flight as freedom. And, as Jackie Wang notes in Carceral Capitalism, contemporary policing continues to target these otherwise possibilities. She quotes Fred Moten speaking about the 2014 murder of Michael Brown: “[Darren Wilson shot] insurgent Black life walking down the street … he was shooting at mobile Black sociality walking down the street in a way that he understood implicitly constituted a threat to the order he represents and that he is sworn to protect.” Abolition is, in the end, a threat to the order that policing represents.

The contemporary movement for abolition includes, but is not limited to, calls to defund the police and render prisons obsolete. Abolitionists like Angela Davis identify the US military as the world’s most powerful police force, and organizers like Harsha Walia call for the abolition of border imperialism, or the securitization of borders against people displaced by capitalism and colonialism. Nick Estes, a scholar and citizen of the Lower Brule Sioux Tribe, theorizes the “carceral reservation world,” showing how settlers control and discipline Indigenous mobility, how boarding schools were “prison-like” and militarized, and how contemporary policing targets Indigenous relationships to land—from butterfly sanctuaries in Mexico to the Amazon rainforest to Standing Rock. In Our History is the Future, Estes points to the correlation between mass incarceration and the Red Power Movement in the 1970s, pointing to prisons as a new technique of Indigenous elimination. Abolition is a process of imagining alternatives to the settler colonial, carceral present; it requires modes of kinship and care to replace prisons and policing.

Abolition offers us another way to theorize the sacred and to see how political theology shapes carceral logics. My manuscript-in-progress, Sanctuary Everywhere, expands on ideas of the sacred as that which is fundamentally at odds and incompatible with the profane. The profane includes those institutions, ideas, and practices that are understood to be natural, inevitable, necessary: capitalism, borders, nation-states. I understand the profane as the world of rules, stability, and order. People who pose a threat to the everyday—who Ruth Wilson Gilmore might refer to as “surplus populations”—are locked in cages, kept out of sight and out of mind; they are barred from the everyday world, too unruly and unmanageable for the profane. Robert Hertz might refer to these populations as “negative” or “left hand” sacred.   

I argue that the sacred is abolitionist: it interrupts the everyday and proposes otherwise possibilities for transgression, intimacy, immanence. Abolition, like the sacred, is simultaneously positive and negative: it destroys and heals, dismantles and rebuilds, eradicates and creates; it makes possible the future in the here and now. In the previously referenced conversation about abolition on stolen land, Ruth Wilson Gilmore insists that “abolition is presence,” by which she means that it is “life in rehearsal and not a recitation of rules.” The sacred is, after all, a rehearsal. It is not fixed or permanent but rather made and remade through endless activity, what Elaine Peña calls devotional labor. Abolition requires a rethinking of cultures of punishment and discipline—forms of governmentality that scholars like Michel Foucault link to early Christianity and penitence rituals—and an emphasis on care and reciprocity. In the Sonora-Arizona borderlands, where my research is located, abolitionists like the folks involved in No Más Muertes/No More Deaths insist that walls will fall, that borders are impermanent, and that care renders policing and borders unnecessary.

Joshua Dubler and Vincent Lloyd write about impossibility as abolition’s starting point. In Break Every Yoke, they note that religion is crucial for activating the radical imagination, for abolitionist plotting and abolitionist dreaming. They write about the political theology of mass incarceration, noting that law and order politics in the 1970s coincided with a shift in the evangelical movement. They observe that, during this time, evangelicalism began to define the center of religion as individual freedom and the self. Dubler and Lloyd point to Mariame Kaba as someone who practices abolition theology, refusing neoliberal individualism in favor of collective struggle. Kaba insists that abolition is about healing, caring, nurturing relationships. She writes, “We have to transform the relationships that we have with each other so we can really create new forms of safety and justice in our communities.” Abolition is not only an end goal or a political objective, but also a daily commitment, an orientation to the world. Abolition is the ongoing work of creating alternatives to prisons and policing, and so it is about clean water, housing, healthcare, education, jobs, and resources. Abolition is about collaboration, conspiring against neoliberal capitalism, stolen land, and imperialist intervention that leads to the disproportionate caging of Black, Indigenous, and Latinx communities.

Abolition is creative; adrienne marie brown proposes that abolitionist organizing is science fiction, meaning that it is speculative and experimental. Such abolitionist worlds can be found in the work of Octavia Butler, a Black feminist science fiction writer whose work embraces apocalypse and awakenings. Butler’s Parable of the Sower features two acts. In the first, fifteen-year-old protagonist Lauren Olamina is living in Los Angeles in 2024 — a society facing climate crisis, wealth inequality, and food scarcity as a result of neoliberalism. To protect themselves from the chaos of the outside world, Lauren’s family lives in a walled neighborhood, believing that enclosure and isolation are the only ways to survive. They police their property and use force to keep away outsiders. In the second act, after the community is invaded and the walls come down, survivors have to reimagine new worlds rooted in care, mutual aid, and community defense. They band together and create a mobile community of sanctuary, crossing borders, seeking safety — a sort of political theology of pilgrimage. Lauren’s theory of the world, which she calls Earthseed, understands that marking yourself off from the world cannot protect you, that the walls have to come down, and that experimentation, abolition, and transformation are crucial to creating freer futures.

According to Parable of the Sower and Earthseed philosophy, change is divinity. Butler writes, “All that you touch, you change. All that you change, changes you. The only lasting truth is change. … As wind, as water, as fire, as life, God is change.” Abolition is a commitment to change, a sacred act of refusing the profane and its brutality — of rejecting the mundane and imagining otherwise. In the aftermath of the attack on their gated community, Lauren Olamina surveys the damage, overwhelmed by the violence, scarred by the crowd of corpses. Realizing the urgency of leaving home—the need to abandon the profane—she urges other survivors to look for any tools, encyclopedias, biographies, and foods that will help them survive. These tools are also in political theology, in looking for the ways sacred forces disrupt everyday life. “Nothing is going to save us. If we don’t save ourselves, we’re dead,” she insists — aware that neoliberalism depends on state neglect, on what Ruth Wilson Gilmore terms organized abandonment. “Now use your imagination.” 

Annotated Bibliography:

Critical Resistance Collective. Abolition Now! Ten Years of Strategy and Struggle Against the Prison Industrial Complex. Oakland: AK Press, 2008

This is a collection of essays divided into three sections—dismantle, change, build—on abolitionist mothering, theorizing, organizing, and plotting. The closing essay by Alexis Pauline Gumbs proposes that abolition is not a “shattering thing” or a “wrecking ball event,” but rather, it sprouts from the tears in our eyes; it is a result of our “diligent gardening.”

Davis, Angela. Abolition Democracy: Beyond Empire, Prisons, and Torture. New York: Seven Stories, 2005

Davis extends W.E.B. DuBois’ concept of abolition democracy to theorize abolition not only as a negative process of destruction, but about creating and making possible new, life-affirming institutions.

Gilmore, Ruth Wilson. Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis, and Opposition in Globalizing California. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007

Gilmore offers an analysis of neoliberalism and how—since the 1980s—the state’s organized abandonment of surplus populations has contributed to mass incarceration in California. She shows how prisons are not tied to community safety, but rather to political economy. 

Gumbs, Alexis Pauline. Spill: Scenes of Black Feminist Fugitivity. Durham: Duke University Press, 2016.

Spill is a Black feminist experiment in getting free and getting out. Gumbs turns to fugitive women—including Harriet Tubman and Phyllis Wheatley— escaping the everyday and creating otherwise communities. Gumbs insists on remembering “new worlds that we’ve been stepping over this whole time, created in the ritual spaces of the kitchen, the bathtub, the front porch. New worlds that our great grandmothers already saw, and tasted and sweated into being. In other words, this book, and every moment, is an opportunity to recognize that this populated planet, is full of worlds and wisdom made and remade, touching each other through time. Knew worlds, in the supposed unknown.”


Native survivance, in [Gerald] Vizenor’s parlance, is a combination of the words “survival” and “resistance,” and it “creates a sense of presence.” According to him, “The suffix -ance designates a condition, a nature, or a quality that is more than a mere description of survival.”


Where relationality is most productive in critical projects is where it transcends its projects of critique and explores the possibilities—ethical, political, and theological—of its account of subjectivity and community.


Facing the violence of contemporary terror, many intellectuals have spoken in our present times about a return of political theology and religion in its violent forms. Attention to the concept of martyrdom has reappeared due to an increasing interest in religious conflicts.


In autopoiesis, there is no separation between what we do and the particular way in which the world appears to us.


Where state sovereignty as theology would have subjected groups accept their condition with its attending violence and suffering, the micro sovereignty I propose here – not merely as a futuristic idea, but more as a reflection on how subjected groups have dealt with subjection – invites us not to accept that violence and suffering, but to find creative ways out of it through the cracks of Empire.


Abolition is a process of imagining alternatives to the settler colonial, carceral present; it requires modes of kinship and care to replace prisons and policing.

Gratuitous Violence

Signifying a critical homology between the fields of Black studies and political theology, gratuitous violence is an important keyword for interrogating how religio-political concepts can afford unique insights into issues of slavery, race, and the human which continue to inform our world today.  


Asian American literary criticism’s analysis of contemporary orientalisms centered around the figuration of Asian subjectivities reminds political theologians that unconscious (white) fear and fascination with the Orient still guides political and theoretical engagement with the Asian “other.”


Thing as concept can be helpful to elucidate the specific yet ambiguous interaction of the religious and the political. Using recent thingly theoretical work within these two spheres, with an emphasis on body and shape, I will suggest ways through which thing (and things and thingness) both clarifies and challenges that interaction.


Diaspora might be a problem for political progressives for the very reason that it is so alluring. Diaspora promises both freedom and connection: freedom from national borders or the essentialisms of race and language, connection between people who affirm shared memory and heritage.
But heritage is never really free.


If there is one thing that can be said about blackness, it is this: blackness is unruly.

Black Reason

Black reason is propelled by a fantastic imaginary, a changeling animus that aggregates and transmogrifies the desires and fears of whiteness.

Racial Capitalism

The historical and theoretical relationships between race and capitalism are internally contested and in need of further exploration from theologians and scholars of religion.


Sometimes referred to as “population control,” other times “better breeding,” eugenics has been seen as a religious solution to social ills, and sometimes a new religion unto itself.


Gilroy’s “planetary humanism” contributes to political theology by offering more than a critique: in his work, humanism is a starting point, a concept to guide multicultural political projects today.


Official responses to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic have encouraged us to understand risk in individual terms. They’re wrong: risk is all about interdependence.

Food Sovereignty

Food sovereignty represents a refusal of a globally commodified food system in favor of systems and institutions that support self-sufficient communities.


Doxa is a term used in sociology to contend with belief and orthodoxy without reducing either to behavior or cognition. It explores disposition and embodied belief—the gut sense of the world which is acquired through practice rather than discourse.

Settler Colonialism

I propose Decolonial Settler Theology as a contextual political theology that is uniquely the task of the settler, who must face their own complicity in narratives of ongoing colonization and aim at their undoing.


In an era during which police institutions and ideology are so fundamental to our cultural common-sense, how can theologians and critical theorists challenge this form of power?


This essay takes taboo as a critical term to trace the history of our modern present and as a conceptual companion with which to think through the complex entanglement of the ethical, the theological, and the political.


What is still nascent… is an explicit conversation between political theology and critical theories of affect, particularly in a way that might contribute to constructive projects. The sort of political theology that might emerge from such collaboration would consider how affective regimes intersect with theological constructions or religious performances.


While kinship has traditionally held a vibrant conceptual life in anthropological inquiry, more recent studies on kinship as a form of spiritual relationality have opened up a new space of interdisciplinary exploration for political theology.


The modern state form itself is inextricable from the commandement, not just as an emblem for sovereignty in Schmitt’s sense, but also because the exemplary political form of modernity, the nation-state, has racist and exclusionary tendencies that can be understood as political-theological transfers of monotheistic principles.


That structural violence is always also relational, proximate, and personal is, perhaps, one of the core insights that the concept of mourning brings to the fore for political theology.


The conversation about nature’s personhood and rights is always political, often legal, and sometimes theological. Most importantly, it is a localized conversation about the boundaries of a given community – who is part of the community and who isn’t.


For political theology, we might find ourselves compelled by practices that seek to connect us with our ecologies, our communities, and our relations with ourselves – in ways that are more about humility and provisionality than finding cures or solutions.


Queer, I think, should remain different, differing, dissonant, and plural. It shouldn’t contract or calcify into anything singular or solid.


If theorizations of care are to more directly address the current “crisis of care,” we need not only to prioritize the kinds of embodied, particularized care that care ethics has highlighted in the past, but to explore a wider range of caring relationships and their diverse structures.


A preliminary question for political theology is how to understand the meaning and significance of matter. The response to this question shapes how a political theology does or doesn’t engage political economy and theological tradition.


The triangulation of money, sovereignty, and divinity is a good point of entry to study the mutual constitution of theological and political concepts and the questions about ultimate value and social form that they raise.


Refusal is a strong current resisting the structure of settler colonialism. It crashes, churns, and erodes the death-dealing dams of settler knowing. Its path turns away from the settler’s gaze.


Seva lends itself to easy appropriation across political and religious contexts, while also furnishing mutually intelligible tropes of service, welfare, and social betterment.


Political theology intimately understands that given reality teems with forms of life that remain opaque to us.


Spillers, Cheng, and Halberstam provide us with tools to approach the histories of violence, economics, relationships, desires, and contestation that infuse our experiences with flesh in its multiplicity. Flesh is never neutral.


It is not always possible (or advisable) to separate the “political” from the “religious” or “cultural” in Indigenous contexts. Indeed, all of these are concepts developed by outsiders to describe Indigenous life. Instead, Indigeneity invites scholars of political theology and related fields to consider the relationships between these threads of cultural life.


As we watch the illusion that was Man fall apart, we also see these more-than-human worlds that Man called “animal” disrupting and revealing the cracks and fractures in his own divine intentions.

Temporality I: History

William Apess, like Walter Benjamin a century later, sought to shift the paradigms of society with history and theology as orienting poles for colonial critique. Anticipating Benjamin, Apess looked to those who had been wrecked by the advance of colonialism as the grounding site for historical and political theological inquiry.

Temporality II: Futurity

Both Benjamin and Apess discern that historical narratives are imbricated with notions of futurity, that is, which bodies and polities are allowed to inhabit and thrive within the temporality in which the “not yet” and the “always already” co-constitute each other.


In this short essay, written from my perspective as a Jewish feminist, I draw together a plurality of engagements with natality to engender new conversations in political theology.

Critical Race Theory

CRT is a framework or an approach to understanding the way racism is foundational to systems of judicial, political, social, cultural, religious, and theological power.


[S]ituating demonology more fully in its religious and theological contexts furnishes resources that not only nuance understandings of movements for whom demonization is central, but also recontextualize discussions of core political theological concepts, including sovereignty, power, economy, subjectivity, and freedom.


From Myanmar to Mariupol, from the streets of Memphis to the waves and winds of the Mediterranean Sea: resistance to violence takes many forms. So does political protest against precarity. At which point does the unavoidable vulnerability of the living condition come to expression as political agency? Can such precarious politics constitute or configure an alternative community?

Hunger Strike

“Instead of neatly separating the forms of resistance to biosovereignty into life-affirming struggles and necroresistance and mapping them (and life and death) onto the reform/revolt dichotomy, I suggest that we conceive life and death as relational rather than oppositional categories. For every differentiation and intensification of death creates new possibilities of life; and every differentiation and intensification of life entails experiences of “death” that cannot be reduced to the power of one’s death.”

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