March 29, 2026

Real Power: Gandhi, King, and a Little Girl Named Ruby

As I have mentioned, I have been watching Ken Burns documentaries recently. One of the things that has struck me is how horrible and ugly beyond words the acts perpetrated in war have been – men, women, and children often slaughtered indiscriminately. And even today we see bombs and missiles dropped on civilian targets in places across the globe. I have come to the conclusion that the term “inhuman” has no real meaning. There seems to be nothing that humans are incapable of.
Today, we celebrate the triumphal entry into Jerusalem of a man who was the very embodiment of non-violent resistance and the example for many who have followed him to oppose all forms of violence and war. I have been struggling with today’s sermon because I find myself deeply conflicted about all this. My inner conflict is perhaps epitomized in my responses to those stories in the documentaries and on the news about war. I honor and respect those who have given their lives in service to their country, I grasp the significance of what they have died for, and I also ache for their families and ask myself repeatedly if there might not have been another way. I know these issues are deeply emotional, and that people of good faith and good will find themselves on opposite sides of them. I have been struggling because I am not entirely sure of the virtue of my own emotional responses. I have been struggling because I find myself, at some level of my being, completely at odds with what I understand to be the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Those of you who know my background know that, before I entered the ministry, I was a police officer. A portion of my life has been dedicated to the absolute necessity of the use of force – even deadly force – in order to protect individuals or society from those bent on doing harm. I was, for a good portion of my life, an outspoken advocate for the death penalty. And I am outraged by the wild, bloodthirsty actions of those who drive cars into market places full of people or strap explosives to their bodies to kill as many men, women, and children as possible, all in the name of God! I know there’s a part of me that would just like to find what hole-in-the-wall they’re hiding in and drop a bomb on them myself.
Here’s the problem I have: how do I square all that with this Jesus who preached and practiced suffering, self-sacrificing, non-violence in the face of evil? How do I square all that with the images of those brave soldiers who have sacrificed everything? And how do I square it with the images that also haunt me of those who have followed in Jesus’ steps by taking up the awesome mantle of non-violent resistance?
I have to tell you that I am left with many questions, and much inner conflict. I have to tell you as well, however, that I am here not to preach to you the gospel of Mike Scott, but the gospel of Jesus Christ, however difficult that gospel may be to preach.
It is the gospel of a man who rode into the city of Jerusalem amid the cheers and waving of palm branches, and who knew more clearly than anyone around him, that he was riding to his death. It is the gospel of a man who refused to call upon either the powers of his miraculous ways, or the swords of his followers to save him from that death. It is the gospel of a man who refused to participate in evil, and who refused to adopt evil’s means, even if it meant going obediently to the cross. And it is the gospel of a man who told any of us who would follow him that our task is to take up our own crosses as well.
Admittedly, Jesus had his moments. He drove the money changers out of the temple and he spat invectives at the scribes and pharisees. He lost his cool on occasion; he was not a plastic, other-worldly sort of guru. But even though he may have been a man of passion, the record of his ministry, his teaching, his example is clear: he was a man of non-violence, and he called his followers to be the same.
Martin Luther King, Jr. picked up on that. He saw the tracks of Jesus on the road to Calvary, and he knew what they meant. He also saw the tracks of Mahatma Gandhi who preached the same sort of non-violence (one might object to including Gandhi in our survey of those who followed Christ, but even though Gandhi was not a Christian, he was very clearly a follower of Christ’s example).
What King and Gandhi both saw was that one cannot resist evil by adopting evil’s means. Once the means and methods of evil are taken up, no matter what the cause, the result is simply the furtherance of evil. When confronted with violence, if you take up that violence yourself you do not put it down; instead you end up keeping the violence alive by taking it within and giving it rebirth through your own actions. Gandhi and King, following the incredibly difficult path of the one who carried his cross to Calvary, finally concluded that resistance to evil meant non-participation in evil, including non-participation in violence.
There was another one who picked up that message. She got it from, of all places, Sunday School. Many of you have heard her story. Her name is Ruby Bridges. Nov. 14, 1960 was Ruby’s first day as a first-grader at William Frantz School in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans. It was also the day public schools were integrated.
Robert Coles, a child psychiatrist has told her story. At the time, he was a young Air Force doctor trying to get to a conference in town, but was held up by the angry mob outside Ruby’s school. Coles had done research on the effects of stress on children, and, as he watched Ruby trying to make her way through the crowd, he couldn’t help wondering what the little girl was going through. He wound up staying for three years. In that time, he studied the effects of the hate and violence that swirled around Ruby and three other girls who were trying to attend all-white schools.
He tells the story of one particular day, when, on the way up the sidewalk into the school, surrounded by an angry mob screaming hateful words at her, she suddenly stopped, and started talking to herself. Coles at first thought this was a clear sign that the pressure had become too much for her. The little girl was breaking.
But, later when she was questioned about what happened, and why she had stopped in the middle of the crowd that morning, Ruby said that she stopped because she realized she had forgotten to perform her daily ritual. And what was it that Ruby did every morning that was so important that she had to stop in the middle of a jeering mob when she remembered it? It was to say a prayer. She prayed that God would forgive these people for what they were doing. It was something she learned in Sunday School.
The reason Ruby’s story continues to be so powerful, even after all these years, and after all the telling, and retelling of it, is that it reflects a human potential so profound and so awe-inspiring that we instinctively see in it the very power and presence of the Holy Spirit. Few of us imagine that we ourselves could muster that kind of grace and courage, but we know what it is when we see it. We know that it is divine. And we know that it reflects the best of what we are called to be.
A number of years ago, 43 year old Ruby Bridges Hall was the guest speaker at a Martin Luther King, Jr. Convocation. At the conclusion of her address she said, “If each one of us takes an initiative and makes a commitment to live peacefully and respect others and just do what we know is right, the world would be a better place for our children and for us, and ultimately through these efforts we will live the dream of equality – the dream of Dr. King.”1
What does all this have to say to we who are haunted by the images of devastation in places like Ukraine and Iran? I don’t have a simplistic or judgmental answer. But I do have a feeling. I have an uncomfortable feeling that we are in danger of taking the wrong path, and losing sight of the footprints of Christ.
Clearly, we cannot stand by and ignore the hideous acts of murderous people or nations. We must resist such evil, and we must resist it courageously. As Dr. King said, “He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetuate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really co-operating with it.”
But the question that is posed to us by Christ’s example is this: how do we resist and counter the evil of violence without becoming, ourselves, the agents and emissaries of that same evil?
I wish the answer were simple. I fear that, instead, it is a difficult and unsettling answer. At the very least, I suspect it involves doing all in our power to build world community before trying to achieve world domination. I suspect it has to do with not glorifying and reveling in war, and not turning our nation into such an efficient killing machine that it becomes easy to turn to military options before all others have been exhausted. Beyond that, I fear that it is the answer of a man who rode a donkey directly into the firestorm of hatred and made the world a different place by standing against that hatred, and by taking upon himself its fury.
The world may not be ready to follow him. I don’t even know if I’m entirely prepared to follow him. But on this day of all days, perhaps each one of us is compelled to consider what it means to follow those footsteps.