Journeeman.

The Tragedy of the “Crowd”

Over the last few years, I’ve been deeply engaged in studying human nature through the lens of Christian thought and history, building on my bachelor’s degree in theology. As I’ve explored the 20th century and beyond, I’ve come face to face with a stark paradox at the heart of the human condition.

On one hand, there is an undeniable desire for peace, prosperity, and harmony with others. We long for a better world where justice and well-being prevail. But on the other hand, this desire is often tied to our own terms and conditions—a peace that sometimes demands the use of force or violence to protect it.

History painfully reveals this contradiction. From the horrors of the Nazi regime and Stalinism to the Rape of Nanking and the ongoing US-Israel war with Iran (initiated February 28, 2026, with strikes killing Supreme Leader Khamenei, massive retaliatory missile/drone barrages, and regional escalation involving proxies like Hezbollah), we see that beneath humanity’s longing for peace lies an instinctual, tribal impulse. This impulse can lead to violence, domination, and horrific acts against those deemed ‘other.’

This paradox—our yearning for peace alongside our capacity for violence—is the tragic reality we must grapple with if we are to understand the true nature of conflict and the difficult questions it raises. This article is focused on exploring that very paradox. I’m not here to resolve it—because, frankly, this paradox is the cold reality of human existence. If we fail to acknowledge and understand how this tension seeps into our world, we will never truly address the deep human issues that arise from living within this active paradox of human engagement.

The Problem of the Crowd

This is the wisdom that Kierkegaard brings us: the crowd is untruth. There’s a deep reality behind this—that when people come together as a crowd, they don’t just bring their individual opinions; instead, the crowd forms its own collective mindset, ideologies, and worldviews. To function as one, the crowd demands a kind of conformity, which means it’s not simply a space of compromise but a place where control and power play their deepest tricks.

What feels like expressing our own views is often just reflecting the collective mindset. The crowd shapes and molds opinion, demanding that all voices conform in some way. This creates a profound tension: the crowd suppresses true individuality, yet individuals often feel weak or unsafe standing apart.

I know this struggle well from my own experience in prison and the judicial system. It took everything I had—strength, determination, and conviction—to stand firm in what I knew to be true and right, even when social structures had already judged me. Resisting the crowd’s pressure to conform is exhausting. It demands courage and an inner resolve that stretches mental, physical, and spiritual limits. Being an individual among the crowd, holding to your truth at great personal cost, is one of the hardest battles we face.

This dynamic explains why public opinion tends to swing between two extremes—the path of least resistance, often pacifism, or the loudest, most aggressive imperialism. The crowd will buckle one way or the other, driven by human nature’s complex push-and-pull and the individual’s deep need for safety and security.

Thesis Statement

This tension—the deep human desire for peace alongside the tribal urge to conform and sometimes resort to violence—reveals a troubling darkness at the core of the human soul. In this world, where the “Kingdom of Darkness” is actively at work, the use of force, including war, can tragically become a coercive necessity to restrain evil and protect the innocent. Yet, even in such harsh realities, the Church must never lose its prophetic independence. It is called to be the moral compass and the voice of conscience that holds the sword accountable—ensuring that power is exercised justly, wisely, and only as a last resort. This delicate balance between recognizing the necessity of force and guarding against its abuse is the foundation upon which we must build our understanding of justice, peace, and Christian responsibility.

Over the past few years, I have come to see myself more clearly as a Christian realist. The idealism I held in my youth—and even during my early Christian walk—has greatly diminished, especially in recent years. The challenges of COVID, false allegations, and the struggles within the court and corrections system have forced me to confront a stark reality: we must see the world as it truly is, as best as we can.

Paradoxically, I hate the suffering and trials I have endured, yet I cherish what I’ve learned through them. One of the most vital lessons is that a failure to accept reality—without sugarcoating or denial—contributes to the untruth of the crowd. It risks turning us into mere fuel for the fires of extremism or, worse, into indifferent agents of evil. Recognizing this reality is essential if we are to avoid falling into the trap of collective illusions or destructive passivity.

The State’s “Short Sword” (The Tactical Foundation)

Scriptural Basis

Romans 13 is often cited as the foundational text for understanding the role of government and authority in the Christian worldview. Paul writes, “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been instituted by God” (Romans 13:1). This passage emphasizes that all authority ultimately derives from God, and the state’s role is to serve as an agent of divine order and justice.

The Concept

The “short sword” (Greek: machaira) Paul refers to is not a weapon of mass destruction or imperial conquest. Instead, it is a precise, surgical instrument—used for immediate, close-at-hand justice. This short sword is meant for swift, targeted action against evil—an act of discipline, correction, or restraint—rather than a tool for widespread domination.

The Role of the State as Diakonos

The state functions as a diakonos—a servant—tasked with a specific, limited role within society. It is not the owner or ultimate authority but an agent of divine order, called to serve justice and maintain peace. This stewardship echoes Karl Barth’s realist vision of the state as a provisional divine order that restrains the powers of chaos and nothingness in a fallen world—akin to the powerful imagery of the state as a dam that holds back the flood of chaos. The dam symbolizes the state’s role in containing destructive forces, preventing chaos from overwhelming society. Its authority is delegated—exousia—a trust from God, meant to be exercised with wisdom and restraint, not for domination or imperial conquest. The state’s purpose is to uphold order (tassō, diatagē) temporarily, ensuring that evil is restrained and that societal life can flourish within the boundaries of justice and righteousness. This limits the ego of the state, reminding us that its power is a stewardship, not an end in itself.

Nuance and Etymological/Theological Significance

The authority of the state (exousia) is delegated, not absolute. Derived from the Greek ex (out of) and eimi (to be), exousia implies a right that is “out of being”—a divine trust, not an innate power. It is a legal right, a stewardship, that can be revoked if the state exceeds its proper bounds and becomes an instrument of untruth or tyranny.

The tassō (to arrange or assign) and diatagē (order, command) emphasize that the state’s authority is a temporary, functional appointment—like a soldier assigned to a post, not the owner of the post or the ultimate authority. This limits the ego of the state, reminding us that its power is for a season and purpose, not an end in itself.

Understanding these Greek roots illuminates the theological weight of the “short sword.” It’s a tool for precise justice—aimed at evil, not mass destruction. It’s delegated, temporary, and subject to divine accountability. The state’s authority is a stewardship from God, meant to serve justice, not to dominate or become the ultimate arbiter of truth. In application, the state’s use of force must be only as a last resort, with discrimination (protecting non-combatants) and proportionality (ensuring the response fits the evil addressed).

The Failure of Idealism: Rebutting Tolstoy

Tolstoy’s The Kingdom of God Is Within You presents a compelling and radical vision of Christian pacifism—an uncompromising rejection of all violence and militarism. As he writes, “We regard as unchristian and unlawful not only all wars, whether offensive or defensive, but all preparations for war; every naval ship, every arsenal, every fortification… we regard as unchristian and unlawful.” (p. 3). His stance is rooted in a sincere desire for a world where love and non-resistance triumph over violence and conquest. I want to believe that this is the world we could live in—that a society founded on such principles would embody true Christian love and justice.

But the reality, I have found, is far more complex. I read Tolstoy’s words and want to hold onto that idealism, but I must admit—it’s a dream. It’s a beautiful, noble dream, but it’s still just that: a dream. The world we live in is marked by systemic evil, chaos, and conflict that cannot be simply wished away with love alone. His vision, while inspiring, is ultimately a form of dreaming—an aspiration that, in the real world, often clashes with the persistent, tragic necessity of restraining evil through force.

This is why I see Tolstoy’s pacifism as a kind of under-realized eschatology—an ideal that neglects the biblical tension of the “already but not yet.” We long for the fullness of God’s peace, but we live in a fallen world where the sword, tragic as it is, sometimes remains a necessary tool to restrain evil until the coming of the full kingdom. The church must remain prophetic, holding society accountable to divine justice, even as it recognizes the tragic necessity of the state’s “short sword” in a broken world.

The Realist Counterpoint: Reinhold Niebuhr on Justice, Power, and the Limits of Utopia

While Tolstoy’s vision of a world governed purely by love and non-resistance is inspiring, it overlooks a fundamental reality: human nature and societal dynamics are far more complex. Reinhold Niebuhr’s Moral Man and Immoral Society (1932) offers a sobering, yet necessary, corrective to this idealism. His insights help us understand why naive utopian visions, no matter how noble, often fall short when confronting the realities of evil, power, and human selfishness.

The Core Tension: Individual Morality vs. Collective Immorality

Niebuhr’s primary concern is that groups—nations, classes, races—are inherently more selfish and less rational than individuals. While a person can be “moral”—capable of self-sacrifice and altruism—a society is almost always “immoral” because it lacks a shared conscience. This supports the Kierkegaardian insight about the “Untruth of the Crowd”: applying the “Law of Love,” which is meant for the individual heart, as a “Law of Nations” ignores the brutal truth that groups tend to respond only to power and coercion.

Justice as the Proxy for Love

Niebuhr introduces a crucial distinction that helps clarify the purpose of the “short sword”: love versus justice. For individuals, love—selflessness—is the highest ideal. But for societies, justice—maintaining a balance of power—is necessary. When “Love” is substituted for “Justice” in politics, it degenerates into sentimentality, making society vulnerable to tyranny because it refuses to resist evil effectively. The sword, then, is not wielded out of a lack of love but as a necessary instrument of justice—an essential tool to restrain evil when moral persuasion alone fails.

The Children of Light and Darkness

In a later work (1944), Niebuhr offers a compelling framework:

• The Children of Light are the idealists who believe that self-interest can be entirely disciplined by universal law. They are virtuous but naive, underestimating the power of self-interest—both in their enemies and in themselves.
• The Children of Darkness are the realists—moral cynics who recognize no law but their own will, often leading to totalitarianism.

The church’s role, Niebuhr argues, is to be “wise as serpents”—possessing the “light” of Christ but also the “realism” of the dark—ensuring that we do not become so “good” that we are ineffective in confronting evil.

In essence, Niebuhr reminds us that “when we try to force the pure ‘Law of Love’ into the machinery of the state, we don’t get a holy nation; we get a sentimental vacuum that the ‘Children of Darkness’ are only too happy to fill.” This is a vital caution: idealism, while noble, can become a dangerous form of irresponsibility if it blinds us to the realities of power and human fallenness.

The Process of Conquest: Reframing the Cross as Cosmic Victory

Traditionally, many interpret the crucifixion of Christ as a moment of quiet submission—a passive acceptance of evil and suffering. But a deeper theological reflection reveals something far more dynamic and profound.

The Re-framing

On the cross, within Christ’s broken body, death is not the victor. Instead, the cross is the battlefield where Christ actively moves into the heart of what must be defeated. This is not a reluctant servant hanging on a tree, passively accepting pain and suffering. Rather, it is the Lord triumphant entering the battleground. Here, Jesus confronts tyranny, evil, death, decay, and chaos head-on. His crucifixion is the greatest battle ever fought—a cosmic disarmament where evil’s power is broken at its source.

Paul vividly describes this victory in Colossians 2:15: “He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him.” This passage highlights that Christ’s death and resurrection are not passive moments but active, divine conquest—where all powers of darkness are disarmed and defeated.

Similarly, in Ephesians 6:12, Paul reminds us: “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.” Christ’s victory is the definitive disarming of these cosmic powers, rendering them powerless and defeated within his body.

Christ’s suffering is not defeat but the active engagement of the ultimate victory. The cross is the place where the forces of darkness meet their match, where death itself is disarmed within Christ’s body. This profound biblical truth reframes the cross from a symbol of passive submission into a powerful image of conquest and divine justice.

The Lesson

If the ultimate act of Grace was this kind of cosmic conquest, then our understanding and representation of Grace must also be proactive and firm. Grace calls us not to quiet submission in the face of wickedness but to courageous confrontation—standing firm against evil with the confidence that, like Christ, we participate in God’s ultimate victory over darkness.

The Multi-Layered Response to Evil: The Peaceful Witness and the Realist Confrontation

The St. Francis and the Sultan Encounter

The story of St. Francis’s visit to Sultan Malik al-Kamil during the Fifth Crusade is often celebrated as a radical act of peace—Francis crossing enemy lines to speak with humility and love. It was a prophetic gesture, embodying the Gospel’s call to reconciliation. But crucially, this encounter took place within a highly complex context: the powerful Crusader armies loomed behind, ready to escalate violence if necessary. Francis’s peaceful approach was an act of faith and courage amid a backdrop of potential violence and coercion. It’s a reminder that true peace-making often occurs in the midst of formidable forces of evil, not in a vacuum.

Josephus and the Shift from Idealism to Realism

In contrast, the story of Josephus—initially a zealot fighting for his people—illustrates how proximity to brutal power can reshape one’s stance. After being captured by Caesar, Josephus’s perspective shifted from militant resistance to pragmatic realism. His experience with captivity revealed that idealism alone often falters when faced with immediate, personal evil. The personal and political realities of power and violence can force even the most committed to reconsider their approach, acknowledging that confronting evil sometimes requires restraint, strategy, and acceptance of tragic outcomes.

The Lesson in Complexity

Both stories highlight a vital truth: Wise Christian engagement with evil is layered. The St. Francis model exemplifies prophetic peace—standing firm in love amid complex forces. Josephus’s story reminds us that reality often demands a responsible response—one that recognizes evil’s tragic potential and the limits of naive idealism. Effective Christian realism involves confronting evil with wisdom, knowing that sometimes the outcomes are tragic but necessary.

The Diplomat/Intellectual and the Protector

This layered understanding invites us to recognize the crucial roles of both the Diplomat/Intellectual—like St. Francis, engaging in “violent” theological confrontation through dialogue—and the Protector—those who “hold the line” to ensure freedom and democracy aren’t forsaken. Both are essential: one challenges evil with the power of ideas and the witness of peace, while the other defends against evil with the strength necessary to protect the vulnerable.

The Prophetic Watchman: A Call to Moral Clarity, Courage, and Realistic Hope

The Church’s role is not to act as the “Moral Police”—like regimes that impose morality from the top or silence dissent—but to serve as the Prophetic Voice in a fractured world. We are called to be the watchmen on the wall, blowing the trumpet—not to offer simple answers, but to confront evil with honesty, strength, and hope, in a way that refuses to water down the stark realities before us.

The Biblical Foundation: Unpacking Romans 13

Ezekiel 33 makes this clear: “If you see the sword coming and do not blow the trumpet, then the blood is on your hands.” The prophet is explicitly told that silence in the face of danger makes the watchman responsible for the consequences. The church, as the prophetic voice, bears a moral responsibility to warn, to confront, and to hold the city accountable. We are not called to hide or water down the truth; we are called to be faithful witnesses, speaking boldly and faithfully.

Paul’s words in Romans 13 further illuminate this tension, but require careful nuance:

• The Sword (Machaira): This is not the rhomphaia (a massive broadsword) but a smaller, precise instrument. It implies the state’s use of force must be surgical, aimed specifically at the “evil” it is meant to excise, not a blunt instrument for expansion.
• Authority (Exousia): Derived from “out of being,” it signifies delegated authority, not raw power (dynamis). The state’s power is “on loan,” and if it acts outside its exousia, it loses its right to be obeyed.
• Order/Appointed (Tassō): A military term implying the state is a placeholder—a soldier assigned to a post. The state doesn’t own its position; it is merely “stationed” to prevent chaos.
• Conscience (Syneidēsis): From “to know together with,” it is a “shared knowledge” with God. If we obey the state “for the sake of conscience,” we are checking its actions against what we “know together with” God. If the state’s “truth” contradicts that shared knowledge, the prophetic voice must speak.

Further, the role of the church is to be a watchman—warning the wicked, calling for repentance, and ensuring justice. We are the moral conscience of the city, not the moral police of the state’s shadow. Our prayers for peace are not so we can hide from the world, but so that we can hold the world to account, always with humility and courage.

The Goal

Our ultimate aim is to embody grace and goodness in a way that genuinely restrains evil—not through naive passivity or oppressive dominance, but through a moral stance rooted in truth, justice, and courageous confrontation. True peace isn’t merely the absence of war; it’s the presence of justice—sometimes demanding the boldness to stand firm against darkness, with clarity and resolve.

The Call to Action

This is a call for deep thought, critical reflection, and historical awareness. The Church must resist simplistic solutions. Instead, we must engage with nuance, recognizing that confronting evil involves layered responses—prophetic, pragmatic, and protective. It’s about being circumspect, knowing when to speak, when to stand firm, and when to act, always grounded in hope and moral clarity.

And crucially:

Even Jesus Christ Himself calls us to be “wise as serpents and innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16). This is no naive utopianism. It’s the absolute realization that dealing with the realities of evil and conflict requires profound wisdom and a deep willingness to engage—yet always for the sake of peace, not for the sake of power.

The Final Charge

This isn’t a task for the “layman” with easy answers. It demands the courage to weigh history and nuance carefully, to speak truthfully and boldly, and to stand with humility and resolve. We are called to represent grace and goodness in a way that actually restrains evil and proclaims the Kingdom of Christ.

And now, as the final punchline:

“The Church does not pray for the peace of the city so that it can hide from the world, but so that it can hold the world to account. We are not the moral police of the state’s shadow, but the keepers of its conscience—the ones who must ensure that when the sword is drawn, it is drawn for justice, and when it is sheathed, it is sheathed in the name of a much greater King.”