Bishop Beckwith: The Newark Riots and the Legacy of Violence

Forty years ago this week, the city of Newark erupted in five days of violence, which claimed the lives of 26 people, caused millions of dollars of damage – and sullied the reputation and fabric of life in this city for at least the next generation. The reasons for the rebellion/riot/revolution are many and multivalent, and we need to keep sorting through the stories and evidence -- for our learning and healing. Yet at its root, I believe that the violence of 1967 emerged from a toxic combination of fear and frustration.


The fear was of the other – separated by race and culture and history, and an insidious legal and economic system that was organized to maintain the separation. The frustration boiled over as more and more people felt that there was no way to break through the fear, and fear’s manifestation of racism, economic inequality, and the devil knows what else.

Much attention has been devoted to enumerating the sequence of events of 1967 -- and uncovering new evidence, and evaluating mistakes and misjudgments. That is important and necessary work. But there is a subliminal danger in thinking that violence is limited to situations and places where the fear and frustration quotient is especially high; places we have been told to stay away from – inner city neighborhoods, the West Bank, Iraq, and Afghanistan.


But violence does not have such obvious boundaries. It turns out that violence is one of our most serious cultural diseases. While most of us recognize that violence is a disease that needs curing, it is perhaps less obvious for us to realize that we have been taught – for at least a millennium - that violence is the cure to the disease. We retaliate. We punish. We seek vengeance – done with permission and in the expectation that it will make things better.

It doesn’t.


Now I can say with a measure of self-righteousness that I have rarely, if ever, engaged in physical violence. I was lucky. I suppose it helped that I have three younger sisters, whom my parents insisted were off-limits to me in terms of physical retaliation. And every coach I ever had drilled into me the discipline to never fight – even when physically provoked.

But verbal violence is a different matter. If someone has done something to me, I think of what I can (and should) say about them. I don’t know if I have ever verbally trashed anyone, but I have filleted a few people over the years. I have done it because other people do it. I have done it because, for a moment or two, it made me feel good. Verbal violence has become a kind of cultural sport – and we play it because – in the short run anyway, putting someone down gives the illusion of lifting oneself up. If we sacrifice someone else, then we will be spared. One of the unwritten rules of this cultural sport seems to be that it is best played if the offending person is not around, but a lot of other people are. All of which creates another illusion -- the verbally assaulted person doesn’t hear what is said about them, and the speaker gets to let off a little steam and perhaps showcase some linguistic flourish. No harm, no foul.

Yet no matter how we arrange or gerrymander these scenarios, they still involve violence. Fear and frustration bubble up in toxic ways – and while the direct or indirect verbal assaults don’t leave physical scars, they nonetheless create lasting wounds.

Jesus lived in a world that was arguably more violent than ours. Violence was official policy in the Roman Empire. Yet instead of tapping into the rampant fear and frustration felt by the many recipients of Roman violence and using it as a basis for a violent counterinsurgency, Jesus employed the God-given gifts of wisdom and love. Drawing on the witness of the Hebrew prophets, and in confidence of his deep and abiding relationship with God, Jesus stepped in between violence and the victims of violence. And his presence in that dangerous place has been our ticket to freedom ever since – because it set us free from the need to engage in physical or verbal retaliation.

We are called to stand with Christ in that place between our violence and our victims. Sometimes that means standing between our own ego, which wants to retaliate – and our Christ-nourished soul, which yearns for humanity’s full freedom. We have had many examples of prophets and saints who have stood in that place – Mahatma Gandhi, Desmond Tutu, Martin Luther King Jr.; and I would add my college music professor Henry and my sister Andrea. Their words and actions -- by intention, instinct or grace, have helped to provide us – for an instant or a lifetime, with a vision of freedom. Freedom to live in the greater fullness of Christ’s blessing.


Have a refreshing and transforming summer.

In peace,


+Mark Beckwith