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The world doesn’t need more interfaith conferences. It needs a defiant, loving, spiritually alive army saying, “No” to every lie told in God’s name and “Yes” to every human being whose dignity is at risk.
I didn’t set out to study nonviolence. Like many, I stumbled upon it in fragments, quotes that refused to leave me, the persistent sense that some ancient wisdom was trying to cut through the noise of our modern world.
Over time, through teaching, crisis counseling, community organizing, and meditation, I’ve come to a radical realization: Nonviolence is not merely a political tactic or a personal ethic. It is a global resistance movement against the fusion of religion and empire. It is how we reclaim God from the powers that abuse the sacred to justify violence.
We live in an age of rising religious nationalism. From Hindu majoritarianism in Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s India, to Christian nationalism in the United States, to theocratic impulses behind Israeli settler expansionism, to Islamist authoritarianism across parts of the Middle East, violent ideologies drape themselves in sacred flags. Across continents, politics does not just use religion, it deifies power itself.
These movements, despite differences in theology, share a dangerous logic: God belongs to the nation-state. Dissent is heresy. Violence in defense of faith is holy. From Trump rallies invoking Jesus as a warrior against “wokeness,” to mobs in Sri Lanka attacking Muslim businesses under Buddhist banners, the message is the same: We are the faithful, and they are the enemy.
This is not faith. It is idolatry.
Nonviolence is not weakness, it is moral imagination.
The through line is the same everywhere: Political machines manipulate our spiritual longing—our desire for meaning, belonging, and moral clarity—into instruments of fear. Fear of invasion, moral decay, the other. Religion fused with nationalism offers an intoxicating narrative: You are chosen, your suffering righteous, your violence divinely sanctioned.
The consequences are stark: genocide in Myanmar, insurgencies in Nigeria, mass protests in Iran led by women chanting “Zan, Zendegi, Azadi”—Woman, Life, Freedom.
Yet, wherever God is weaponized, people of conscience rise to reclaim the sacred.
The prophets of scripture were never courtiers to kings. Jeremiah, Amos, Isaiah, Jesus, Muhammad, the Buddha, Guru Nanak—they stood outside the gates, shouting warnings. They taught that God is never found in empires but in the poor, the exiled, the occupied.
Jesus did not die because he preached love; he died because he preached a love that refused Caesar. His nonviolence was not meekness; it was resistance. To “love your enemies” was to forgive Roman soldiers, tax collectors, collaborators, a revolutionary courage that unsettled empires.
Mahatma Gandhi understood this deeply. His weapon was truth; his discipline, nonviolence. His target: the British Empire, which fused God, king, and commerce into one colonial theology. Gandhi’s Ahimsa was a spiritual rebuke to every religion that justified oppression in God’s name. He was not just a nationalist, he was an exorcist.
The world has changed. Weapons are faster. Propaganda is louder. Failures now risk climate catastrophe, nuclear war, genocide. Yet the core dynamic remains: Empire seeks to baptize its violence. In President Vladimir Putin’s Russia, Orthodox priests bless missiles. In Gaza and southern Israel, both Hamas and Israeli extremists quote scripture to justify massacres. In the US, Bible verses are wielded to demonize LGBTQ+ communities and suppress reproductive rights. Meanwhile, the poor remain poor, the Earth burns, and God’s name is dragged through bloodied streets.
Resistance requires more than interfaith talk or symbolic gestures. We need a global, spiritually rooted movement connecting every site of conscience. Pastors, imams, rabbis, monks, Indigenous elders, atheists, spiritual seekers, anyone refusing the false choice between extremism and moral apathy.
Such movements exist, though rarely in headlines:
These are the prophets of our time, not famous, not always safe, but always faithful.
Nonviolence may seem fragile in a world of drones, deepfakes, authoritarian surveillance, beheadings, bombings. Hunger strikes against indifferent governments can feel meaningless. Yet, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the “Frontier Gandhi,” organized 100,000 Pashtun men into a nonviolent army, declaring, “It is cowardice to kill. It requires courage to be nonviolent.”
I recall historical images of Black Panthers feeding children, monks lying before tanks in Myanmar, Standing Rock, grandmothers chaining themselves to border fences, Iranian women burning hijabs in defiance. Nonviolence is not weakness, it is moral imagination. It refuses empire the power to define our dignity.
It is difficult. I fail daily. My thoughts are not always peaceful; my rhetoric sometimes sharp. I am still unlearning the myth that power requires domination. Yet we must try. The alternative is annihilation.
As a counselor and teacher, I witness the spiritual devastation of religious violence, not only physical, but emotional: shame, fear, exclusion. A woman fleeing an evangelical cult. A gay teen rejected by his mosque. A veteran praying for forgiveness nightly after deploying drone strikes.
Reclaiming God is urgent. Pastoral. Political. Global. The world doesn’t need more interfaith conferences. It needs a defiant, loving, spiritually alive army saying, “No” to every lie told in God’s name and “Yes” to every human being whose dignity is at risk.
Yes to Palestinians and Israelis. Yes to Muslims and Hindus. Yes to atheists and fundamentalists. Yes to victims—and, if they seek it, to the redeemed.
The God I follow does not wave flags. Does not draw borders. Is found in the faces of those who show up unarmed. If faith is real, it must be revolutionary. If God is just, God must be liberated from every flag, every bomb, every distorted sermon.
This is the work. And it requires all of us.
Nonviolence or nonexistence. Gandhi and King made their choice. What will ours be?
Making it easier for young people to vote is a great way to increase participation, making our democracy live up to its ideals.
With democracy under attack in the US, a worldwide movement to lower the voting age is growing. This July, the United Kingdom announced it would lower the voting age from 18 to 16 in general elections. When the bill passes, the UK will join Brazil, Austria, Cuba, Argentina, Nicaragua, and Ecuador as nations which already allow 16-year-olds to vote. In others, including Greece and Indonesia, the voting age is 17.
While there is no clear partisan advantage in lowering the voting age, collective benefits abound—including a more engaged democracy judged by civic engagement and political attitudes.
Voting habits are established early, and support in the classroom can make a big difference. But, when the voting age is 18, fewer voters are in school during their first election. Depending on the election cycle, many will not have the opportunity to vote in a national election until they are 21. Thus, many first-time voters lack vital resources and thus face higher barriers to entry. The case is true in the United States. Nearly a third of unregistered voters between 18-29 say they were simply too busy to go through the registration process.
As political scientist Joshua Tucker explains, “If you vote when you’re young in the first three elections, [for which you are eligible] that’s likely to predict you continue voting.” If you don’t, “you’re less likely to vote for the rest of your life,” and “even one failure lowers the chance of voting later.” So, the stakes are high and opportunity during the early years can have lifelong impacts.
Here 16- and 17-year-olds drive, pay taxes, work unrestricted hours; yet they cannot exercise the fundamental, democratic right to vote.
Nations lowering voting age have experienced an increase youth activism. Argentina, for example, lowered voting age in 2012. Then in 2015, years before the surge of the #MeToo movement, the Ni Una Menos (Not one less) movement in Argentina began. Through mass protests and strikes, it aimed to combat and bring awareness to gender-based violence.
Another youth-led action—the Marea Verde (Green Wave) Movement—pushed to legalize abortion and significantly influenced development and passage of a 2020 national Argentine law that did just that.
Here, too, young Americans have stepped up for a stronger democracy, even helping to spark two of the most influential Supreme Court cases. In 1951, 16-year-old Barbara Johns, a student in a segregated school in Prince Edward County, Virginia, took action. Her school held over twice as many students as was legally permissible, used second-hand supplies, and lacked adequate bathrooms or heating. So, Johns led her peers in a school assembly and ultimately organized a student-body strike. With the support of the NAACP, her courageous efforts turned into one of the five legal cases of Brown v. the Board of Education that declared public school segregation illegal.
About a decade and a half later, five students in Des Moines, Iowa came together to protest the Vietnam War, each wearing an armband to school. For this they were suspended, but they fought back. Their fight eventually made its way to the Supreme Court and what would become Tinker v. Des Moines defining public-school students’ First Amendment rights.
In a more recent example of the power of student activism, a survivor from the Parkland shooting, high school junior Cameron Kasky, organized the March for Our Lives protests in 2018. In a fight for gun control, they would become one of the largest in US history, with a million participants—mostly students—taking the streets to fight for gun control.
These formidable young people offer inspiring evidence that an early understanding of civics, along with the experience of political empowerment, can ripple out to make history. These stories underscore our responsibility to bring these principles and opportunities to all young Americans, not only with better civics education but also by lowering the voting age, and thereby affirming their voices matter.
As data from the most recent election confirm, states with the least restrictive voting had the highest turnout among young voters, while the opposite was true in the more restrictive states. Thankfully, we are making progress: In a third of US states, 17-year-olds can now vote in primaries if they turn 18 before the general election. Even more exciting are the dozen cities where 16-year-olds can now vote, either in school-board elections or all local elections.
The facts are clear. Making it easier for young people to vote is a great way to increase participation, making our democracy live up to its ideals. Here 16- and 17-year-olds drive, pay taxes, work unrestricted hours; yet they cannot exercise the fundamental, democratic right to vote.
Let us step up to join our peer nations and change that now.No more than a dozen protesters can get people talking about war on a military base and in a military town.
I learned in April this year that it is not necessary to marshal hundreds of protesters to have a powerful impact, particularly if just one protester is willing to risk arrest.
Here is what happened.
As I stood holding a “Hands off Palestine” sign outside the west gate of New Mexico’s Holloman AFB, the home of the largest training base in the US for killer drone operators, I looked back, over my shoulder, and I was astounded to see Toby Blomé, the chief organizer of the protest, lying flat on the pavement, blocking a car trying to enter the base. Holloman graduates over 700 killer drone operators a year.
Toby was not only interrupting the base’s daily routine in a call to conscience, she was demonstrating how no more than a dozen protesters can get people talking about war on a military base and in a military town, Alamogordo, New Mexico.
We had come to Alamogordo on Sunday, April 20, 2025 for a weeklong “Shut Down Drone Warfare” protest, the third such protest in three years.
Most of the MPs were very young, and several seemed troubled by what Toby was saying.
Each morning and afternoon during commuting hours that week, we stood with our signs and banners along Route 70, stretching flat, hot, and dusty across the vast Tularosa Basin, running west to the main entrance to Holloman, and beyond, to the Arizona state line.
Our visual messages changed daily as we connected the dots between militarism and ecocide, climate chaos, political indoctrination, and the immorality and illegality of drone warfare. This year we particularly emphasized US complicity in the horrific genocide in Palestine, where US drones are being used for surveillance in support of Israeli attacks in Gaza and, we believe, elsewhere in the region.
We watched intently for any sign of approval from base personnel as they sped to and from work, many thrilling at the speed and muffler blare of their hot-rodded sedans and sports cars or their motorcycles. We were rewarded with sparse waves, peace signs, and honks, including from other travelers, most frequently in air horn blasts from the drivers of commercial 18-wheelers.
As is the custom of the annual protest, on Wednesday, we planned a direct action, blocking an entrance to the base and holding the blockade for as long as possible. This year, Toby suggested that we go to the base’s west gate instead of the main entrance.
We had learned on Monday that a new feature near the base’s main entrance is a blue line, apparently painted expressly for us, allegedly marking the boundary between federal property, subject to federal trespassing charges, and Otero County property, subject to county law, which would possibly carry lesser penalties for trespassers. It was over 200 feet farther away from where we had occasionally stationed ourselves in past years, giving us less access to traffic approaching the gate’s entrance.
On Wednesday, 12 of us arrived at the west gate at about 6:00 am MT. As the sun began to rise over the Sacramento Mountains, we walked fast across the four-lane highway and quickly set ourselves up across the gate entrance with our signs, banners, and Veterans for Peace flag.
Toby was the only who felt that she could fully risk arrest. There were five others of us who were willing to take a lower risk and participate in the human blockade until county officers arrived to order us to disperse.
Toby, standing in the middle of us, held a sign saying, “HOLLOMAN, NO DRONES 4 GENOCIDE.” Others on either side held banners reading, “CEASEFIRE For the Children” and “Every 15 Minutes A Child in Gaza is… Killed.”
All of us were initially standing on the “federal” side of the new blue line. In addition to the banners and signs, we were each wearing small signs over our chests, with a different name and age of one of the Gaza children killed in the genocide since October 7, 2023.
Almost immediately, a black sedan, driven by a woman, pulled into the short driveway, stopping just short of our blockade, unable to pass. None of us moved. At least three military police (MPs) came from inside the base to talk with Toby as a line of cars and pickup trucks of base personnel began to back up on Route 70. Toward the end of the jammed-up line, some drivers began to pull out of line, crossing into the eastbound lanes to head back to the base’s main gate.
We in the driveway were told that we were trespassing on federal property, and that we faced federal trespassing charges. At that point, those flanking Toby with banners stepped forward onto Otero County property. Toby remained behind us, on the federal side of the line. Toby continued to talk with the MPs, explaining the need to stop drone killing.
As one MP warned Toby of her pending arrest, she quickly lay down silently in front of the black car, in an unplanned extremely effective, brave act. Two banner holders moved behind the black car so that it could not back up.
Toby Blomé lies down in front of a black sedan.
While lying on the ground, Toby talked to the five or six MPs now gathered about the dire conditions in Gaza, including the slaughter of thousands of children. She implored them to recognize their complicity and urged them to educate themselves on the US role in the genocide.
Most of the MPs were very young, and several seemed troubled by what Toby was saying. One squatted down in front of Toby and attempted to persuade her to get up, unsuccessfully.
After what seemed to be about 15 minutes, all the MPs had disappeared. Toby got up, remaining in front of the black sedan. Two very aggressive drivers whizzed off the edge of the driveway to get past the blockade, speeding dangerously into the base. Toby, by now distracted from the exact location of the new blue line, urged several of us other blockaders to back up closer to the gate entrance to prevent other cars from entering and to avoid an accident.
At that point the MPs returned and arrested Toby. Taking her ID and handcuffing her, they escorted her onto the base. The “low-risk blockades” were still holding. About 35-40 minutes had passed by now.
At this point, three tall heavyset Otero County Sheriff’s deputies pulled up and swaggered over to two blockaders holding a banner. One of the deputies angrily tore the banner away from the two and threw it on the ground. This surprised the deputy in charge of the detail who told the angry man to step back, and a third deputy held him by the arm to restrain him.
The sheriff’s men told us to get out of the driveway or get arrested, and we moved to the side of the driveway.
Toby, still being detained just inside the base gate, continued to try to educate the MPs, giving them sources for reliable news and information and of support for GI resisters. She was soon cited and released, having been charged with trespassing on federal property and told that she would be notified by mail of a court hearing. Toby joined the other protesters, and all but two, who stayed at the west gate, continued their vigil at the main gate for the remainder of the morning commute.
As the pair staying at the west gate held their banner, a driver exiting the base stopped, rolled down his passenger side window, and said words to the effect, “I want you to know that not all the people on the base agree with what is happening in Gaza.”
The next day, when Toby went into the office of nearby Oliver Lee Memorial State Park, where most of the protesters were staying, a woman staffer told her, “You guys are all over the internet, and people are not happy.”