Over the past day or so, I’ve found myself caught in a deeply emotional and challenging conversation with several friends—fellow believers—about Jesus, violence, and what it means to faithfully follow Christ in a broken world. It’s the kind of discussion that forces you to pause, reflect, and grapple with the deep tension between human instincts for self-preservation and the radical ethic of love Jesus proclaimed.

I shared something simple, heartfelt, and deeply grounded in the Gospels: that Jesus said things like “love your enemies,” “bless those who curse you,” and “turn the other cheek.” Not because harm is okay, but because He showed a radical, nonviolent way to resist evil—through self-sacrificial love rather than returning violence for violence.

The responses I got from friends, though thoughtful, revealed a deeper issue. A pattern. A hesitance to accept the real cost of what Jesus taught.

The Pushback

One friend reminded me of when Jesus overturned the tables of the money changers, interpreting this as an act of physical violence, suggesting, “Jesus beat the crap out of some people one time.” They also referenced Jesus telling His disciples to carry swords, claiming that violence is therefore “on the table” and “perfectly legit.”

Another friend expanded on the philosophical idea that “someone has to absorb the evil,” agreeing with the idea that violence perpetuates more violence. But they also added that Jesus wasn’t perfectly nonviolent because He said some hard things to people and, again, used force in the temple. They struggled with the idea that there are no easy answers anymore, and joked that this complexity is what adulthood is.

Some others weighed in with thoughts like:

  • “We shouldn’t be quick to identify someone as an enemy, but if it comes down to it, we should be ready to defend with lethal force.”
  • “The brain adapts. You’ll get over having to kill someone if it’s justified.”
  • “Jesus came not to bring peace but a sword.”
  • “The early Christians didn’t just accept violence—they fled instead of submitting to it.”
  • “God’s problem is the aggressor’s soul. Not mine.”

It was a swirl of theology, emotion, trauma, and fear. And it left me wondering: how did we get so far from the heart of Jesus?

Jesus and Violence: The Misunderstandings

Let’s look closely at the often-cited moments that are used to justify the idea that Jesus condoned or used violence.

1. The Temple Incident

Yes, Jesus overturned tables and drove out the money changers with a whip. But read the Gospels carefully: the whip is of cords, not a weapon used to harm. There is no record that He beat people. His actions were a prophetic protest against corruption in the temple, not a bar fight. It was dramatic, yes—but it was not violence in the conventional sense. It was symbolic, non-lethal, and aimed at systems, not people.

2. “I came not to bring peace, but a sword”

This phrase from Matthew 10:34 is often misunderstood. The context is key: Jesus isn’t encouraging violence—He’s acknowledging that His radical message of love and truth will divide families, provoke opposition, and cost people everything. The “sword” is metaphorical. Jesus never instructed His followers to take up actual weapons in His name.

3. “Buy a sword” (Luke 22:36)

In this passage, Jesus tells His disciples to buy a sword. But just a few verses later, when they say they already have two, He says, “It is enough.” And when Peter uses one of them to cut off a man’s ear, Jesus immediately heals the man and rebukes Peter: “Put your sword back in its place, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matthew 26:52). Again, context matters. Jesus wasn’t endorsing armed defense—He was warning them that persecution was coming, and that they needed to prepare spiritually, not militarily.

The Way of the Cross: Radical Nonviolence

The teachings of Jesus are not easy. “Turn the other cheek.” “Go the extra mile.” “Love your enemies.” “Pray for those who persecute you.”

None of this is about being passive. It’s about resisting evil without becoming evil. Jesus didn’t call us to be doormats—He called us to transform the world through a kind of love that refuses to play by the rules of domination, retaliation, or fear.

This is the way of the Cross: to willingly suffer for others, to absorb hatred and not return it, to speak truth boldly without fists, and to choose mercy over vengeance even when it’s costly.

And Jesus lived it to the end. When He was arrested, beaten, mocked, and crucified, He didn’t call on angels to defend Him. He forgave. He loved. He died rather than kill.

The Early Church Understood

The first generations of Christians got this. They didn’t fight back when persecuted. They didn’t take up arms. They did flee at times—but more often, they willingly laid down their lives in witness to a Kingdom not of this world.

Their refusal to fight wasn’t cowardice. It was conviction.

What About Self-Defense?

This is the hardest question. What do you do when someone threatens your family? Your community? Innocent lives?

There is no easy answer. But the way of Christ is clear: violence is not the ideal. It is not the Kingdom way. If a Christian does use force in an extreme, last-resort case, it must be with deep sorrow, not justification. It must be with trembling, not triumph. And it should always be seen as a tragic failure of peace—not something to celebrate.

A Final Word

If we claim to follow Jesus, we don’t get to mold Him into a warrior to justify our fears or our weapons. He is who He is. And He told us to be like Him.

“I’m not Jesus,” some say. That’s true. But we’re supposed to be becoming more like Him—not less.

So, I write this not in judgment of my friends, but in grief. Because I know this world is hard. I know there are real threats. But I also know that when Jesus calls us to love our enemies, He’s not naive. He’s God. And His way is the only way that actually breaks the cycle of evil.

May we have the courage to follow Him—even when it makes us look foolish, even when it costs us, even when it hurts.

Because that’s what love does.