“I am all for supporting our troops—and prayers up for our servicemen and women—but I’m seeing a lot of debate about God when it comes to the war in Iran. On the one hand, we have Hegseth saying that all the glory of American combat goes to God. On the other, the Pope is condemning war and says God won’t hear the prayers of those who wage it. All in all, I wouldn’t perceive the Bible as a peaceful text, exactly, so what gives? What does God actually think about war?”

Dearly Beloved, 

One hand is not like the other. I hear you asking whose theology is more legitimate between Pete Hegseth and Pope Leo XIV. Or President Trump and Pope Leo XIV. Or, more recently, JD Vance and Pope Leo XIV. And that’s like asking me to consider if Bobby Boucher’s got a better shot at the Pro Football Hall of Fame than Tom Brady.

One is a caricature. The other is… the Pope. (He’s proficient in seven languages for Christ’s sake! What are we even talking about?!)

Totally different leagues. Completely different realities. It’s a waste of time at best, and dangerous at worst, to pretend like the successor of St. Peter and some guy named Pete are speaking from even remotely comparable places. 

Pete Hegseth (or his boss for that matter) doesn’t strike one as a biblical scholar; and serious scholars of religion and politics across the political spectrum broadly agree that his brand of evangelical Christian nationalism is conceptually and historically disordered—which, actually, is what authoritarianism depends upon. It thrives on a disregard for expertise and coherence, that the whims of its leaders might remain unimpeachable. So, thinking that Hegseth’s theological speech can be legitimately compared to the Pope’s is a kind of authoritarian limit. Let’s not do that.  

The contradiction you’re identifying between war and peace in the Bible, though, is a feature, not a bug. And this is because the Bible is not a collection of God’s thoughts. The Bible is a collection of anywhere from 66 to 81 books – depending on your tradition – that reflect the fundamental struggle of human existence with itself, and with the question of who gets to inherit the promises of God. Though it is the inspired Word of God, the Bible is not identical with God. It is authoritative for Christian teaching, but also a contrivance of creatureliness. And this tension between divine disclosure and nonidentity with God, between the authoritative and creaturely, is a tension that actually makes the Church compelling and necessary as the thinking Body of Christ. 

While the Bible mentions war frequently, it is not the mere mention of war in scripture that warrants waging it. The Church is called to render theological interpretations of war as it figures in scripture, while placing that interpretation in the broader context of the Church’s mission. With Christ as the head of the Church, we know what that mission is: “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captive and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor’” (Luke 4:18-19). And ‘The Greatest Commandment’ works just as well: “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets” (Matt. 22:37-40). 

In a post-nuclear information age on a dying planet, wherein almost every major conflict is defined by resource hoarding, war is inevitable. But the specificity of our particular nightmare participates in a general reality that transcends time and space. The Church – as the thinking Body of Christ – is constantly charged to mediate: humanity is fundamentally corrupt and, in light of that corruption, will always find itself tempted by idolatry, greed, and ethnic supremacy onto death. Insofar as this is the case, there will likely be instances in which strategic violence, motivated simultaneously by self-defense and a priority of peace, is necessary. But the ideal Christian position is to make one’s daily bread the kind of work that would prevent war from happening in the first place. Certainly not, as it were, perpetuating it to the point of justifying genocide or decimating a school of children. 

As they seek to extinguish the fire of the Spirit that burns in every human soul, the Christ who came to heal the sick and liberate the poor condemns the likes of Trump and Hegseth, unreservedly. This is why Pope Leo XIV has come to find himself embroiled in conflict—condemned by the White House and even JD Vance, our Catholic Vice President. 

But the Pope has stood his ground. Long before America existed, there was the Church. And the Church—whether we always agree with it, like it, or not—witnesses to a vision that transcends the modern nation-state. Speaking from the Roman Catholic Church’s highest, holiest office, Pope Leo—not the President of the United States, as his AI likeness would suggest—represents this transcendence. He, too, is human and therefore, flawed. He, too, is just a man with exaggerated power and responsibility. 

But when the men on our public stage are waging war—asserting theirs is the only version of masculinity blessed by God—the Pope has stepped in to remind us that Christ’s unceasing call remains the same: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matt. 5:9). 

Go in Peace,

Father Paul