As I Was Saying is a forum for a variety of perspectives to foster faith-related conversations among our readers with the goal of mutual learning, even in disagreement. Apart from articles written by editorial staff, these perspectives do not necessarily reflect the views of The Banner.
The recent deaths of Renée Good and Alex Pretti during federal immigration enforcement actions have shaken communities across the United States. Their lives ended in moments marked by fear and force, leaving families grieving and neighbors asking hard questions about accountability, restraint, and the value we place on human life.
These deaths are not abstract statistics. They are reminders that violence—especially when carried out under the authority of the state—demands moral scrutiny, not just procedural review. At moments like this, we are forced to ask whether violence has become an accepted instrument of order rather than a tragic last resort.
One of the most enduring moral challenges to this assumption comes from a well-known moment in the Christian scriptures. As Jesus is arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, one of his closest followers, Peter, reacts instinctively. He draws a sword and strikes a man. Jesus immediately intervenes, saying, “Put your sword back in its place, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matthew 26:52).
In this moment, Christ himself reveals a wisdom that stands above every human instinct and allegiance. Jesus Christ is not denying danger or injustice. He is confronting a deeper truth: violence, even when it feels justified, ultimately multiplies harm. Peter believed he was protecting something sacred. That is precisely what makes the moment so revealing. Violence is rarely born from cruelty alone; more often it arises from fear, loyalty, and a sense of righteousness.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. understood this dynamic well. Reflecting on cycles of violence, he warned that “violence multiplies violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.” King was not naïve about injustice. He faced it daily and ultimately lost his life to it. Yet he insisted that though violence may secure temporary control, it corrodes the moral foundation of individuals, institutions, and nations alike.
Both Jesus’ words to Peter and the nonviolent witness of Martin Luther King Jr. expose the same danger: violence is not merely an action—it is a teacher. It forms the heart, reshapes the imagination, and conditions communities to see others as threats rather than neighbors. Once normalized, it rarely remains contained; it multiplies, narrowing our capacity for empathy and making further harm easier to justify.
This sober insight is deeply rooted in historic Christian faith. Scripture teaches that every person is made in the imago Dei (Genesis 1:27), bearing the image of God and therefore possessing inherent dignity. Reformed theology holds together two essential truths: the gravity of human sin and the sovereignty of divine grace. Because humanity is fallen, civil authority and justice are necessary to restrain evil (Romans 13:1–4). Yet redemption is never secured through vengeance, but through the atoning work of Jesus Christ. As John Calvin insisted, even when confronting wrongdoing, we must not lose sight of the image of God in our neighbor. The gospel, therefore, declares that hatred is not overcome by retaliation but by sacrificial love. A distinctly Christian vision of justice does not deny the need for safety or lawful order; rather, it demands that justice be tempered by mercy, grounded in human dignity, and directed toward restoration under the lordship of Christ.
To say “put the sword away” today is not to deny the reality of danger or to abandon the rightful role of law enforcement. It is to take seriously the lordship of Jesus Christ over every exercise of power. In a democracy, authority is entrusted, not absolute; it is accountable to God and neighbor alike. When force—especially lethal force—is used in disputed circumstances, seeking clarity and accountability is not rebellion but responsibility. Christ’s command calls us to ensure that any use of power is proportionate, transparent, and restrained by moral truth.
The Gospel narrative makes this even clearer. After rebuking Peter, Jesus does not merely halt the violence—he heals the wounded man. In the shadow of betrayal and arrest, he embodies restoration over retaliation. His kingdom advances not by coercion, but by sacrificial love. This same Christ-centered ethic shaped the witness of Martin Luther King Jr., who insisted that nonviolence seeks not to defeat or humiliate an opponent, but to awaken conscience and preserve the humanity of all involved. Such a vision reflects the heart of the one who conquers not by the sword, but by the cross.
For the families of Renée Good and Alex Pretti, these truths do not erase grief. Sorrow remains real and heavy. Yet their loss also stands as a warning. When violence becomes easier to justify and harder to question, trust erodes, fear deepens, and the social fabric weakens for everyone. If we are serious about stopping the cycle, we must resist the reflex to meet fear with force and outrage with retaliation. Putting down the sword today may mean demanding accountability without vengeance, pursuing justice without dehumanization, and choosing restraint even when anger feels righteous.
Violence promises control but delivers corrosion. As Martin Luther King Jr. warned, it becomes a descending spiral, producing the very destruction it claims to prevent. The lesson Jesus Christ offered Peter remains urgent. The question before us is not whether violence exists—it does. The question is whether we will keep reaching for the sword, or whether, in obedience to our crucified and risen Lord, we will finally have the courage to put it away.
For Christ has bound us to a greater calling: to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Every act of force, every demand for justice, every response to fear must be measured against that twofold command. If we truly love God, we will reflect His character—holy, just, and merciful. If we truly love our neighbor, we will refuse to treat any image-bearer as expendable. The path of obedience is not weakness; it is costly faithfulness. And it is the only path that leads away from the sword and toward the peace of Christ’s kingdom.