Looking at current socio-political trends in America, a rise in fascism is abundantly clear. Its ideological toolbox of white nationalism, Christian fundamentalism, anti-intellectualism, and xenophobia; alongside practical tools of state-sanctioned violence, gerrymandering, judicial tyranny, and legislative corporate protections have become our hegemonic reality. Such a shift, incongruent with democratic values, has garnered strength and support at the popular level via Donald Trump’s presidency and his current bid for re-election, undergirded by these ideologies which attack the foundations of free society.
As visceral and effective sources of opposition to these trends, I would like to explore Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker movement—the originators of American Catholic Anti-fascist Action—as well as sketch an understanding of Christ’s own moral imperative for anti-fascist action. Together, these two will provide a counter-narrative to the prevailing motif of the Catholic Right’s resurgence. The amalgamation of the two may perhaps offer hope to those that see leftist political action as incongruent with their faith, choosing rather to leave the Church. Lastly, through this conversation I will trace anti-fascist action not only as a legitimate option for the faithful but argue for it as the option.
Omnis Qui Se Regem Facit Contradicit Caesari: The Fascist Cruelty of Pontius Pilate
When Mussolini selected the fasces, an axe surrounded by bundled wooden rods, as the central symbol for his movement and name of his political party—Partio Nazionale Fascista—he did so as a nod toward an ethnic link to the Roman emperors and to the total power they exerted under the same symbol. In the most comprehensive history of the fasces, The Fasces: A History of Ancient Rome’s Most Dangerous Political Symbol, T. Corey Brennan follows its development not just as a symbol of civil and military powerbut its practical wielding as a brutal instrument of corporal and capital punishment. Brennan argues the fasces was the ultimate signifier of sovereignty in each age of Rome. It is thus fundamentally contradictory for anyone claiming to be a follower of Christ to support the rhetoric, political power, and mechanisms that led to his death.
Pontius Pilate’s condemnation and crucifixion of Jesus occurred under the imperium of Tiberius. The cross mirrored the brutality of the fasces’ original practical usage as well as a symbolic warning to political dissidents. Historical depictions of Pilate and the political realities of the day point to Jesus’ cruel death being ordered and orchestrated by a vicious agent of the original fascist State.
As procurator of Judea, Pilate was to quell potential political unrest and stamp out religious rhetoric seen as usurping Caesar’s roles of Divi Filius and Dictator. This brutality is etched into history by Philo, who illustrates a Pilate outside the Gospel authors’ attempt to carefully navigate the Roman landscape in their evangelical mission. A brief glimpse at one of Philo’s text provides a baseline for understanding Pilate’s true character as a sadistic, manipulative procurator that wielded violence to suppress dissent.
In On the Embassy to Gaius, Philo recounts his presence in the Jewish delegation to Rome as they sought help from Caligula to alleviate tension between Jews and Greeks in Alexandria. Pilate is an example of how not to proceed in such situations while the precedent of Tiberius is elevated. Specifically, Philo discusses Pilate’s actions during his sojourn in Jerusalem for a festival week where he erected gilded Roman shields in Herod’s palace c. 30 CE.
Beyond labeling Pilate as cruel, inflexible, and stubborn for refusing to take them down, Philo tells his audience that such a blasphemous act was undertaken with the express purpose of “annoying the Jews.” Pilate put himself in a precarious position as he was reminded of Tiberius’ typical policy of tense tolerance and the angry crowd threatened a direct appeal to the emperor.
Pilate was afraid that if they sent an embassy, they would bring accusations against the rest of his administration, specifying in detail his venality, violence, thefts, assaults, abusive behavior, frequent executions of untried prisoners, and endless savage ferocity. So, as he was spiteful and angry, but at the same time he was well aware of Tiberius’ firmness on these matters and ultimately the final decision was to acquiesce to his superior.
The fact that such an episode occurred a few years before Jesus’ crucifixion is helpful in explaining the non-soteriological contours of Christ’s death in the Passion Narratives. Coupled with Philo’s description, Pilate’s actions of brutality can be seen as walking a tight rope between anything potentially anti-Tiberian and mocking his constituents. The scene in the praetorium reflects such an approach.
The lictors responsible for beating Jesus in the Good Friday narratives mockingly adorned him not only with purple robes and a crown of thorns, but also a wooden rod—a portion of the fasces itself— with which they beat him as a stark reminder that His kingdom was no match for totalitarian Rome. The sign bearing the inscription Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum may have been affixed as an official charge or a cruel jest, but only makes sense if we juxtapose Christ’s ministry with the standards of the Roman world. It is here that we see Jesus’ very existence as anti-fascist resistance.
Thy Kingdom Come: Jesus, the Kingdom of God, and Antifascist Resistance in the Gospels
The move to present Jesus’ ministry as anti-fascist rather than focus on Soteriological aspects of His being is a conscious one. I am not presenting arguments focusing solely on what Christ did on a cosmic level because those discussions would be categorically different if Jesus had lived his life out as a tradesman in Nazareth rather than being executed in a manner reserved for political agitators.
One distinct example of Jesus’ teaching and preaching which reflected the contours of His Kingdom and directly clashed with the Roman norms of His context should suffice here. I will contextualize Jesus as distinctly anti-Empire via an examination of The Lord’s Prayer as political speech, revisiting subversive political connotations present within Jesus’ ministry.
By avoiding assumptions of apocalypticism, we may begin to understand the commandment to pray those distinct words as a rejection of Imperial power in favor of the weakness present within YHWH’s coming earthly kingdom. The prayer appears in two instances within the Gospel narratives, Matthew 6:9-13 and Luke 11:1-4.
Matthew 6:9b begins the prayer, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name”, while Luke 11:2c states, “Father, hallowed be your name”. The Matthean passage locates the Father in heaven while the Lukan passage makes no such suggestion. Although this may allude to a transcendence motif in Matthew and an imminence motif in Luke, what is clear is the word Father itself is elevated.
Pater patriae, a term utilized by the Roman emperors themselves, bears similar connotations. This juxtaposition is notable given the Roman imperial cult was inescapable within the Palestinian context. Everything from the coinage used to the flashing of power by parading Roman symbols near the temple mount, there was no doubt who the “father” of the Empire was. He certainly was not found in heaven but in Rome.
The Lord’s prayer juxtaposes the Roman pater with the Aramaic use of Abba. One figure rules with brute force while the other is painted as a figure of mercy and compassion who favors the weak masses of society and offers hope in Matthew, and is a God of justice in Luke. Both portrayals of Jesus’ father concretely displace the pater present within the Imperial cult.
Both accounts include “your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven.” The socio-political implications in both accounts are clear. The enacted realities present in this segment of the prayer describing the kingdom’s arrival within earthly boundaries drastically differs from the ones imposed by the Roman Empire.
The prayer continues, “Give us [each] today our daily bread.” In both Greco-Roman and Judaic contexts, the use of grain in production of bread implies cooperation between human and divine. It is not accidental then that Christ’s emphasis on bread has distinct socio-theological implications (multiplication, centrality of table fellowship, and most importantly the Eucharist), but also a supersession of the role of Caesar who was seen as THE provider of grain. Grain in this instance is not merely seen as providing spiritual sustenance but was the very building block of society, specifically the political spectrum. If it is YHWH that provides bread, there are political implications.
The following line in the Matthean text is, “and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors”, while Luke provides us with “and forgive us our sins for we ourselves forgive everyone in debt to us.” The idea of forgiven debts within the Roman context was not a new one; however, the Roman economy was one where such a concept was reserved for elite classes and enacted by the Emperor himself. Given the Roman Empire utilized debt slavery as a socio-economic generator and Jesus himself was part of the lower class upon which heavy taxes were levied in the backwaters of the Empire, the line has economic connotations as powerful as its spiritual ones.
Finally, the Matthean closing line is “and do not subject us to the final test, but deliver us from the evil one”, while Luke has “and do not subject us to the final test.” If Matthew’s use of ἀπὸ τοῦ πονηροῦ is to be translated as “evil one,” versus the occasional translation of “evil,” we might have an allusion to the Roman Emperor.
The fact that the remainder of Christ’s ministry was spent ushering in the very Kingdom described in the prayer highlights the extent to which His movement clashed with fascist Roman culture, religion, politics, and economics. Those that dare to claim Christ and His Kingdom should reflect this active resistance against its contemporary contours.
To Be Catholic is to Be Unamerican: Dorothy Day and a Reflection on Direct Action
For potential ethical responses to the rising tide of Fascism in line with the Christian faith and inspired by the visceral realities of Christ’s own ministry, there is no better modern exemplar than Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker movement. The fundamental bedrock of everything Day incorporated in the program of the Catholic Worker revolved around performing works of mercy.
These were both the corporal works of mercy as outlined in the Beatitudes and the spiritual works of mercy found throughout Christ’s ministry. Such acts explicitly reflected solidarity with the poor, suffering, and marginalized and are prerequisites for the voluntary poverty prescribed by the Workers. Moreover, Peter Maurin extensively critiqued both capitalist and communist approaches to society in his Easy Essays; he was vehemently anti-fascist and aware of threats presented by totalitarianism in all forms.
While the Houses of Hospitality created by Day and Maurin’s movement are often applauded and highlighted as the former moves toward canonization, this is a narrow framing of works of mercy and solidarity. Day was aware of the ways in which the Imago Dei of workers and guests could be damaged not just by a lack of access to material resources but by the anti-human systems which created spiritual and physical poverty. This is why in addition to the “traditional” aspects of the Catholic Worker, Day found it fundamental to participate in direct action against the State.
This often-uncomfortable stance manifested in anti-war protests as part of the movement’s fabric—from anti-WWII initiatives, to burning draft cards during Vietnam, they saw these actions as fundamental to pacifist resistance against the largest creator of poverty: war. Americanism that bolstered fear, launched wars, and spread hatred was underpinned by a specific interpretation of Christianity (one which was far from authentic). In a powerful editorial statement, Day outlines a dire situation.
The policy of the United States is anti-Catholic because it is atheistic. God does not enter into it for in place of Him there is EXPEDIENCY. It has become expedient that we murder, it has become expedient that we ignore the precepts of Jesus Christ laid down in the Sermon on the Mount and applicable to ALL MEN, not just to a chosen few who are to be perfect. It has become expedient that we preach hatred of Communists to the people, that we fasten signs of hate on Church doors and sell comic strip hate books in the Church vestibule. Christianity has been reduced by the theologians to a rule of expediency, Christianity has been made to identify itself with Americanism, with the scum of the Right!
It would have been easier to go along with the status quo and tie the American flag to the cross of Christ, but Day knew this was antithetical to the essence of the Gospel message. This anti-State approach cost Day. Beyond just loss of support from fellow Catholics, she faced frequent arrests, an IRS audit, and Joseph McCarthy’s FBI dossier on “Moscow Mary.” True discipleship was not easy, but neither was Jesus’ own exemplar of resistance.
Though Maurin, Day, and those involved in the Catholic Worker were vehemently pacifist, they were not passive when confronting dehumanizing political and economic policies. In addition to the aforementioned actions, Day supported boycotts (see her interactions with Caesar Chavez); directly violated state policies on segregation and migration status within the houses; utilized anarchist principles to divest from hierarchal facets of society; wrote and encouraged writing letters to the USCCB and political leaders demanding accountability for death-dealing structures; and created some of the first jail support groups (visitation, bond raising, material support in prison, etc.) for political activists. These radical actions were, she argued, founded upon the very calls of Kingdom-building in the Gospels.
Peter Maurin’s dreams of building a coalition between scholars and the working class is a vital approach for any serious discussion of anti-fascist action. As academics, it is not our job merely to create critical thinkers, but to foster critical action. Roundtable discussions were only useful for Maurin if they led to Catholic action based in justice building. The farming communities associated with the Catholic Worker were not fashioned as retreats but as countercultural modes of sustainability in the face of American consumerism. Catholic Worker labor organizing was firmly based in anarchist political theory, but it was only in its application that it held any meaning. These and countless other examples should motivate us and provide a blueprint for how to take on the growing reality of fascism in our own context as faithful Christians and burgeoning academics. May we be as bold in our discipleship as Day and Maurin were.
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