Dorothy Day, Pacifism, Venezuela, and Catholic Theology of Gospel Nonviolence

Sr Katrina Alton, National Chaplain to Pax Christi England and Wales, reflects on the theology of Gospel Nonviolence in the wake of the US attack on Venezuela.

Dorothy Day at City Hall. Source: Wikimedia Commons

Dorothy Day’s essay “We Are Un-American; We Are Catholic” is not merely an antiwar polemic but a sustained articulation of Catholic pacifism rooted in the Gospel. Written in 1948, her opposition to Universal Military Training and to war itself, arises from a theological conviction: violence, in all its forms, is incompatible with fidelity to Jesus. This conviction places her in direct continuity with what is now articulated as Catholic Gospel Nonviolence.

For Day, pacifism is not a strategy but rather an essential element of discipleship. She rejects the idea that preparation for war can ever be morally neutral or morally necessary, describing it as “sin.” Crucially, she

refuses to limit this judgment to armed conflict alone. Any system that trains people—psychologically, economically, or politically—to accept the suffering or killing of others as expedient participates in the same moral corruption. In this sense, Day anticipates contemporary Catholic critiques of structural and economic violence.

Day’s theology challenges the way Just War reasoning functions in practice. While she does not engage it systematically, she exposes how theological distinctions collapse under the lived reality of violence. War

and coercion require the cultivation of hatred, the simplification of the moral imagination, and the suppression of compassion. This insight closely parallels contemporary Catholic teaching, especially Pope Francis’s call to move beyond a reliance on Just War theory toward nonviolence as “a style of politics for peace.”

Applied to U.S. actions toward Venezuela, Day’s pacifism offers a clear moral lens. Economic sanctions, diplomatic isolation, and threats of arrest operate as coercive tools meant to force political outcomes through

civilian suffering. Though non-military in appearance, these measures rely on the same logic Day condemns - that harm may be inflicted if the ideological goal is sufficiently urgent. From the standpoint of Gospel nonviolence, such policies constitute forms of violence displaced into economic and legal, or ‘illegal’, structures.

Across the globe we are witnessing the rise of ‘Christian Nationalism’, an oxymoron that Day was only too familiar with in 1948. Fidelity to Christ, she argues, requires refusal, refusal to cooperate with systems that

demand violence for their stability. Just as she called for conscientious objection and withdrawal from the war economy, contemporary Gospel nonviolence challenges Catholics to resist participation in political and

economic regimes that weaponize deprivation and fear. When faced with the choice between two Herod’s, like Day we are un-American, un-British, un-Venezuelan. We are followers of the One crucified by Empire, the One

who calls us to ‘put down your sword.'

Finally, Day’s pacifism is inseparable from her Christology. She grounds her witness in Christ’s refusal of armed defence and his acceptance of vulnerability rather than domination. The Church, she insists, has no need to be defended by force, sanctions, or imperial authority. Her task is not survival but fidelity. In this sense, Dorothy Day’s vision continues to confront Catholics with a radical question: whether peace is merely an aspiration or a command that governs even our foreign policy.

The essay that Sr Katrina references can be found here.

If You Share What Is Everlasting

LCW Volunteer Harry Wills writes on the Magi and the Meaning of the Other.

"After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.’ When King Herod heard this he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him. When he had called together all the people’s chief priests and teachers of the Law, he asked them where the Messiah was to be born. ‘In Bethlehem in Judea,’ they replied, ‘for this is what the prophet has written: ‘“But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;for out of you will come a ruler who will shepherd my people Israel.”’

(Matthew 2:1–6)

Dream of the Magi, Kelly Latimore (2025)

One of my university teachers told us about the time he spent living in rural Africa. He was the only white Christian in a Muslim community. At first, he felt like a distrusted other’. Yet, they shared their space and resources with him and, by the end, no one could doubt the possibility of co-existence. According to the fear and hatred of ‘otherness’ that has become widespread in Europe, this village ought to have met the visitor with hostility and never have shared their material means with him. Given the history of colonialism in Africa, they certainly had more reason to distrust him than if the situation was reversed.

I was reminded of that story when looking at the Nativity according to Matthew. We are told of ‘Magi from the east’. Men from a different country, religion, and language, and who were widely suspected of sorcery. And yet there was something more important than their differences that brought them to the hospitality of a poor Hebrew family in Bethlehem.

Who were they? While there is some doubt, the term refers to Zoroastrian priests. Their religion, Zoroastrianism, was founded by the prophet Zarathustra who, much like Jesus, inspired a radical shift in the mainstream thought of his day, critical of the established order and traditional religious authorities, and promising a future world where evil is  overcome by good. The appearance of the Magi in the narrative raises two big questions: What was the significance of Jesus’ birth to them? And what do we learn from it?

First, I would like to mention something about the historic relationship between the two religions. There were, of course, significant cosmological and theological disagreements between them but one of the earliest Christian understandings of Zarathustra was that he “had been an Iranian counterpart of the (idealised) Hebrew prophets and had been sent, like them, to prepare the way for Christ” (Mary Boyce). Later, referring to the increasing influence of Christianity and other religions, the Zoroastrian king, Hormizd IV, is reported as saying “A throne has four legs, and the two inner legs cannot support it without the two outer ones. The religion of the Magi likewise cannot stand without opposition.” His proposed solution – mirroring Matthew 5:16 and 1 Peter 2:12; 3:15–16 – was for Zoroastrians to perform good works in order to draw others to the ‘Good Religion’.

Imagine a world where differences were always settled in this way!

To understand why these Magi might have been interested in Jesus, we can look at their scripture. Yasht 19, for instance:

"...in order that the dead shall rise up, that the Living One, the Indestructible, shall come, the world be made wonderful at his wish…" (Cf. Matt 16:16; Luke 20:38)

"We worship mighty Khvarenah (Divinely-Given Glory)…, which will accompany the victorious World-Saviour and also his other comrades, so that he may make the world wonderful…" (Cf. Matt 19:28; John 3:17, 15:26–27; Acts 10:38)

"He will gaze with eyes of sacrifice on the whole material world, and heedfully will he make the whole world undying…" (Cf. John 6:51)

"Bad Purpose will be overcome, Good Purpose overcomes him. Overcome will be the lie, the truth overcomes it… Perfection and immortality will overcome both hunger and thirst…" (Cf. Matt 5:6; John 6:35, 8:32, 16:33; Rom 12:21)

Consider also this passage from the Greater Bundahishna (34:6) which resembles the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats (Matt 25:31–33):

"the Saviour will raise up all the dead. And all mankind will arise, whether just or wicked… In that assembly, everyone will behold his own good or bad deeds, and the just will stand out among the wicked like white sheep among black…"

Zarathustra prophesied about a Last Day, Final Judgment, and resurrection of the dead (Greater Bundahishna). Texts concerning the Saviour also predict a virgin birth (Yasna 43:3). The World Saviour is a pastor for the poor’

(Ahunvar, cf. ‘Good Shepherd’) and is ordained by God (Yasna 53:2). There are also instructions on charity and warnings against wealth. Given His comparison of the rich with camels trying to pass through a needle’s eye (Luke 18:25), you could say Jesus is also a bit of a zarathustra (lit. ‘he who can handle camels’).

There are good reasons, it seems to me, why Magi were included in the story, with prophecies so reminiscent of our own ‘world saviour’. On one hand, the text mentions their ‘foreignness’ but, on the other, we are drawn to see the common ground. The coming together of different people to share in a future hope.

There are other passages in the New Testament that deal with gentiles, Samaritans, the ‘others’ of various kinds and, in each case, the Teaching draws us closer together. It breaks down perceived differences and reveals what is important, that we are neighbours, a theme summarised by Paul: You are all one in Christ Jesus. (Gal. 3:28) If two people can come together in a shared hope, how different can they really be at heart? As the Christian Didache (1st century) says: ‘If you share what is everlasting, you should be that much more willing to share things which do not last’. Today, however, the fear of the ‘other’ means an unwillingness to share land or wealth with those they see as ‘foreign’. But how foreign can they be? I am willing to bet that, wherever we come from, we share a great deal of what is eternal: A humanity and the hope for a future.

As we can see from the Nativity, one of Jesus’ first acts was to bring the ‘other’ to Him. As He says: I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. (John 10:16)

To Him be the glory and the power, forever. Amen.

Herod Built, Jesus Wept

A Home Office Vigil reflection given by former LCW volunteer Francisco Leitão.

Gloria in Excelsis, CW (1947)

It is a rare occasion when the slow and dusty work of archaeology manages to find an audience beyond the small world of academic journal subscribers. Yet, in 2007, the casual Daily Mail reader could have opened the paper to find the following bombastic headline: “A New Discovery May Solve the Mystery of the Bible’s Bloodiest Tyrant”. After 35 years of digging, the late Ehud Netzer and his team had finally found the tomb of the infamous Herod the Great. For those who don’t know, Herod was a member of the Jewish elite at the time of Jesus, and ruled over Judea as a client-king of the Roman Empire. Most of us remember him for the brutal massacre of the innocents that we read in Matthew’s gospel, according to which he ordered all boys under the age of two in and around Bethlehem to be put to death after being informed that the Messiah was coming. Even if that specific incident cannot be historically confirmed, his reputation for ruthlessness appears in many other extra-biblical sources and is almost impossible to deny. But cruelty is not the only thing he’s remembered for. Among archaeologists working in the Holy Land, Herod is mainly known as the greatest builder in the history of the country, leaving more of a lasting imprint on the landscape of Israel than any other single person in history. There is, famously, the reconstruction and expansion of the Second Temple, the supreme symbol of Judean identity, but his architectural ambitions sprawled far beyond Jerusalem. He built fortresses, palaces, aqueducts, ports, and even entire cities from scratch. This, then, raises a question: If the region is already filled with monumental evidence of his reign, why was the discovery of his tomb considered such a defining moment? One possible answer lies in its geography. The tomb was discovered inside a massive man-made mountain, rising some 700 meters above sea level, and housing an elaborate complex of fortified palaces and lush gardens. What makes this site unique, though, is its name. Herod had raised countless buildings in honour of friends, patrons, and emperors, but only here did he choose to name it after himself: Herodium. This decision clearly reveals his intentions: He wished this mount to be his everlasting memorial, a sort of proclamation of how he wanted to be remembered after his death. In the words of the great archaeologist Jodi Magness, “it’s like we’re hearing from Herod in the first person”. So what does he want to tell us?

Netzer’s findings revealed a tall stone mausoleum resting on a square podium, encircled by eighteen Ionic columns and crowned with a conical-shaped roof. Historians and archaeologists were quick to notice a clear resemblance with the mythical tomb of Alexander the Great, and with those of later rulers who sought to place themselves in his lineage, all the way up to Augustus. Alexander, of course, was the prototype of the heroic and deified king, and anyone in the Hellenistic world of that time who wanted to legitimise their power would try to draw a connection with him. So here is Herod saying that he too was a dynastic ruler, one who laid claim to an outright divine status.

But Herod wasn’t just a Roman king, he was also the “King of the Jews”, and as such he needed to present himself as a legitimate ruler in the eyes of his Jewish subjects. Here, too, his monumental project can help us understand his intentions. Herodium was raised to such heights not only for the sake of grandeur, but also to command a view of the neighbouring town of Bethlehem, the birthplace of David. So, by restoring the Temple to its former glory and by establishing his tomb overlooking Bethlehem, Herod sought to claim his place as a royal Messiah in the line of David, coming to redeem the kingdom of Judea and restore it to its former glory. Against this posturing of royal pretension, Matthew’s gospel reading appears as a clear counter-narrative. He’s engaging in a battle for the memory of Israel, a contest over what defines true kingship according to Scripture. The Hebrew bible, for Israel, is not just a text; it’s the living memory of the community, the foundation of their identity. It answers the questions that we all ask ourselves: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?  It’s a story that lays claim to the present and the future of the community, it’s contested and alive, constantly reshaped by those who claim to interpret it.

So Herod tried to shape that memory through monuments of stone and symbols of power, promoting a royal ideology by showing, for example, that he too was born in Bethlehem. But Matthew goes further. Not only is Jesus in the line of kingship, he is also in the line of the great prophets of Israel. He enters into this shared memory not as a builder of temples but as the fulfillment of a prophetic tradition, one that calls for justice, compassion, and liberation. And so throughout his gospel, Matthew will establish, for example, a clear correspondence between Jesus and the biggest of all prophets: Moses. Like Moses, he is rescued in infancy, travels to Egypt and is later called out of it, thus fulfilling Hosea’s famous prophecy (“I called my son out of Egypt” Hos. 11:1). Like Moses, he endures a time in the wilderness; this time not for forty years, but forty days. Like Moses, his law is proclaimed from a mountain. Like Moses, he will speak for a God who sees through the imperial religion of order and triumph, a religion that guards the interests of those in charge, and like Moses, he will come to liberate people from bondage to that oppressive system.

But Matthew, again, goes further. His retrieval of scriptural memory doesn’t stop with Moses. After describing the bloody massacre of Herod, he will quote the great prophet of grief, Jeremiah, known to many as the “weeping prophet”. Jeremiah lived very near the fall of Jerusalem and the exile in Babylon, 500 years before Christ. He is often misread as a doomsday spook, a pitiable soul sulking in his miseries; but his words of anguish served a specific purpose, a purpose that goes to the heart of the prophetic vocation: to form a consciousness that represents a genuine alternative to the royal narrative, one that contradicts the presumed world of kings, showing both that this world fails to align with reality and that we have been taught a lie, after all. It’s a defining feature of this royal consciousness to lead people into numbness, into an inability to care or suffer. The culture of Jeremiah’s time was numbed and therefore unable to face the drastic historical ending that was to come. So Jeremiah knew that the only way to penetrate this numbed consciousness of denial was by the public presentation of grief. As the late Walter Brueggemann put it, “he knew that anguish is the door to historical existence”, that embracing the end, even if painful, is what allows for a new beginning. The paradoxical insight of biblical faith that Jeremiah represents is the awareness that new life is born from despair, that genuine joy is forged in the crucible of lament, and that only by embracing the end can we speak the language of hope. “It is precisely those who know death most painfully,” writes Brueggemann, “who can speak of hope most vigorously.”

So Matthew presents Jesus not only as king, but also as prophet; and it’s the job of prophets, as Jeremiah shows us, to weep. Like Jeremiah, Jesus will weep later on in the gospels, when he approaches the temple and sees its looming end. It’s the work of the prophetic tradition to grieve the end, the very end that the king cannot face, cannot prevent, and surely cannot grieve. So it is with us too, who find it unthinkable to imagine the end of our public institutions, the end of our ways of life, and the stories we tell ourselves. So it is with us too, who inherit this all-too-worldly consciousness that leads us to numbness, incapable of grief, anxious to preserve our identities, and blind to the violence around us. Bombarded with the constant influx of mass-mediated content, we’re happy to drift along with the narratives we’re fed, as long as our illusions of safety are kept intact. The current refugee crisis, with all its frantic political posturing, is only the visible fracture of a world already cracking at its foundations. It’s a symptom of a much deeper problem that we haven’t begun to reckon with, of an old world order straining towards its end. But make no mistake: Until that end comes, our leaders, like the royals at the time of Jeremiah, will ignore it. Like Herod, they will anxiously attempt to preserve things the way they have always been; and they won’t shy away from the most brutal violence to hold on to the old ways. So, like Matthew, we too must enter into a battle for memory, for deciding what we should remember, what binds us as a community, and what answers we give to the questions of who we are, where we come from and where we’re going. And so we remember the lives of all the victims of our fortress policies. And we decide to let go of the rabid nationalisms, the triumphalist claims and the supremacist views that are only bound to grow in the years to come. As Christians, we remember the God who came down, was born in a manger, spent his earlier years as a refugee and was finally put to death outside the gates of the city.

Like Matthew, we understand that accepting the coming of this man means letting go of a certain world. To accept this child as our Saviour, we must first accept the grief of a dying age. And so let us use this time of Advent to grieve. Because only through grief can we truly enter into the joy of Christmas.