A Midrashic and Patristic Journey: Towards an Ethic of Peace Beyond Just War

Abstract

This paper seeks to foster an interpretative dialogue between Judaism and Christianity on an audacious theological dynamic: the shift from an ethics of war to an ethics of peace. Beginning with a hermeneutical examination of a brief midrashic text from the Tanhuma collection, the article argues that the dynamic momentum initiated by the midrash, suggesting a path of transformation from war to peace, finds a powerful echo and development in a contemporary Catholic theological movement rooted in Augustine’s notion of “bellum iustum,” as reoriented by the Magisterial teaching’s emphasis on “just peace” from Pope Benedict XV onward. The authors suggest that the early midrashic dynamic, and the theological audacity it expresses—which will be further explicated—is enriched and given new dimensions when brought into conversation with the Church’s current effort to move beyond the traditional framework of “just war” toward a renewed insistence on peace as the primary ethical horizon. This case study highlights the potential for mutual theological enrichment when the inner movements of both traditions are brought into dialogue.

1. Introduction, Aims, and Methodological Consideration

The pursuit of peace in regions marked by enduring conflict and violence remains an urgent imperative. The lives of thousands, and often far more, hang precariously in the balance whenever peace appears to elude both diplomatic efforts and lived reality. Whether between Israel and Palestine (and, more broadly, the Arab world) or between Ukraine and Russia, two of the most widely discussed contemporary zones of conflict, these examples suffice to illustrate the magnitude of what is truly at stake and to confront the immense human cost of the absence of peace. In each case, regardless of whether an external and ostensibly objective observer might concur, the parties involved often depict their respective wars as just wars, or at least wars of necessity, imposed by circumstance and moral conviction.1 The rabbinic tradition, as well as the magisterium of the Church, has developed and coined theoretical principles to evoke such a notion. While Augustine speaks of bellum iustum (“just war”; C. Faust. 22, 74, Quaest. in Hept. 6, 10, De civ. Dei 19, 7) (Mattox 2006; Corey and Charles 2012; Brunstetter and O’Dirscoll 2018; May 2018), the Talmud and, later, Maimonides preferred the term milḥemet miṣvāh (“commanded war”), denoting a conflict in which participation is religiously mandated.2 These concepts, deeply embedded in the heart of both traditions, have been extensively discussed and interpreted (Solomon 2006; Stern 2012; Kimelman 2023; Reichberg 2006; Justenhoven 2021). What will concern us here, however, is a more elusive correlate of any “just” or “commanded” war, namely, the dynamic of inversion that initiates a possible transformation of war into peace. By evoking a “dynamic of inversion,” we do not presume to propose a path by which war itself might be transformed into peace; rather, we seek to explore—within a very limited textual framework—how our traditions have occasionally dared to invert a written text or an authoritative teaching in order to engage a transformative hermeneutical process that ultimately opens a path toward peace.

The unfolding argument will proceed in two distinct steps, guided by a single interpretive concern: how inherited textual or doctrinal frameworks can be reread so as to open the possibility of peace.

We will begin with a midrashic text in which the inversion of Scripture, and the interpretive dynamic on which it rests, enables the emergence and imagination of peace. The midrash, found in a homiletical collection known as Tanhuma (whose earliest strata probably date to the fifth century, with an editorial process extending possibly up to the nineth century) (Stemberger 1996, pp. 302–6)3 will serve as a textual anchor upon which a personal reflection will be grafted. The text will first be translated, followed by a brief hermeneutical analysis of its structure and themes, before turning more specifically to the dynamic of inversion at work within it, shaping the opening of a path of peace.

In the second part of the paper, this same hermeneutical movement, from authoritative text to transformative rereading, will be explored within a Christian framework. We will turn to Augustine’s notion of bellum iustum and its reception history in the “just war tradition,” reconsidered in light of recent Popes’ emphasis on “just peace.” The aim will be to discern how the interpretive logic exemplified by the midrash finds an unexpected echo in the re-articulation of a central theological category, and how, in both cases, the act of rereading functions as a means of displacing violence and re-imagining peace.

In considering a paradigmatic shift in twentieth-century Catholic interpretations of “just war theory,” it is worth noting that, as Richard Gula—drawing on Bernard Lonergan—argues, Catholic moral theology has undergone significant transformations since the Second Vatican Council, particularly in its focus, worldview, and method (Gula 1989, pp. 28–34). Central to this development is the movement from a “classicist” worldview (characterized by abstraction, universality, and fixity) toward a “historical consciousness,” which is attentive to particularity, contingency, development, and revision. From this perspective, moral teaching is necessarily interpreted in relation to concrete historical contexts and addressed to ever-new audiences. Although these orientations do not exist in pure or mutually exclusive forms, the shift toward historical consciousness is already discernible in Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World “Gaudium et Spes” (1965), especially in its call to “read the signs of the times,” which confers theological legitimacy on contextual interpretation. While a critical assessment of the attendant risks (dogmatism and authoritarianism on the one hand, relativism and antinomianism on the other) lies beyond the scope of the present discussion, this development leads directly to the concept of “recontextualization” in theological reflection, which will also be central to the present reconsideration of “just war theory.” As Lieven Boeve aptly observes, “recontextualisation starts from the firm presumption that history is co-constitutive for theological truth” (Boeve 2009, p. 28).4 This insight serves as an important point of departure for the analysis that follows.

In the concluding part of this paper, we will seek to reflect, in a concise and forward-looking manner, on how these two manifestations of the dynamic of inversion, arising from exegetical traditions that are otherwise largely unrelated, illuminate not only comparable patterns in the ways human communities engage and probe received forms of authoritative religious knowledge, but also the intrinsic dangers involved in allowing the unwritten, here understood as the inverted words of the tradition, to surface with such interpretive freedom from the structures that ordinarily regulate transmission and meaning. By pursuing this line of inquiry, we will aim to clarify how this shared dynamic may serve as a foundation for renewed forms of moral and political audacity, in which faith and interpretation converge in the search for peace, while remaining acutely conscious of the risks that accompany any sustained commitment to the pursuit of peace itself.

Before proceeding with the midrashic part of this paper, a note of methodology is of order. Bringing into conversation an ancient midrashic text with teachings from Augustine, as reinterpreted and transformed by the contemporary papal and magisterial voices, is not without difficulties. If the midrashic collection and Augustine both belong to the period of Late Antiquity5 and share a roughly comparable redactional timeframe, the involvement of the Catholic Magisterium’s creative theological inversion, from “just war” to “just peace” (suggesting a kind of paradigm shift in the twentieth century, even if not in inner disposition, but in statements and practical engagement), introduces a methodological tension with the midrashic framework that must be addressed. To mediate this issue, we argue that the present paper does not aim to read Midrash within what might have been its original context. To put it plainly, the presumed intention of its author, redactor, or editor—if such a programmatic purpose can even be postulated—will not be the concern of this paper. Our position is that of the contemporary reader of Midrash, who, having inherited the textual witnesses of a given midrashic tradition, seeks to discern meaning within them.6 The delution of temporality, between the midrashic redaction, the contexts of the biblical citations it uses, and the contemporary reader, is precisely what Heinemann identified as the “blurring of the temporal distance” (Heinemann 1949, p. 43) that stands as the core of the midrashic project,7 as is the distance between the ancient midrashic text and its contemporary reader.8

Consequently, our engagement with a midrashic text, seeking to uncover the dynamics of inversion (both thematic and hermeneutical) that inform the notion of peace, will proceed—mutatis mutandis and without any undue magisterial ambitions—in a manner analogous to the critical and constructive rereading of the Augustinian tradition undertaken by twentieth-century Popes, beginning with Benedict XV.

2. The Midrashic Lens: The Dynamic of Peace at the Threshold of the Torah Text

Midrashic texts dedicated to the theme of peace, or at least evoking peace, abound.9 From the early Tannaitic sources to the Talmud and the later midrashic anthologies, references to peace—to the ways of peace and to the supreme value of peace—have undoubtedly been a central concern of the sages who understood it as “a meta-value, the summit of all other values” (Ravitzky 1987, p. 686). One emblematic rabbinic saying even presents peace as the ultimate and undisputed value of the entire Torah: “‘Its ways are pleasant ways, and all its paths are peace’ (Prov 3:17). All that is written in the Torah has been written only for the sake of peace” (Buber 1885, Tzav:5).

What concerns us here is not so much the dynamics of peace as articulated within the Torah, but rather the inversion of Scripture as a conceptual key through which the emergence of peace becomes possible. From this perspective, our inquiry turns toward identifying midrashic texts in which the idea of peace is paradoxically grounded—if one may put it so—in the “unwritten text” of the Torah, thereby presupposing a hermeneutical dynamic of emergence. One such midrash is preserved in Midrash Tanhuma, parashat Tzav, commenting on the Book of Leviticus (more specifically, the midrash comments on Lev 7:11, “And this is the Torah of the sacrifice of peace, which he shall offer to the Lord”). In this passage, the midrash makes explicit reference to the peace that God Himself sought, declaring that He “wrote in His Torah words that were never written.” The emergence of these unwritten words of peace, words whose very nature defies inscription, will concern us here.

2.1. Original Translation

‘“This is the law of the sacrifice of šəlāmîm [that one shall offer to the Lord]” (Lev 7:11). Great are the šǝlāmîm, for they bring about peace (šālôm) between Israel and their Father who is in heaven. Rabbi Eleazar ha-Kappar said: Great is peace, for even Israel, who transgresses [the prohibition of] idolatry and seals with it the union of a single [bruise], yet the Attribute of Justice does not strike them, as it is said: “Ephraim is bound to idols; let him be” (Hos 4:17)10. Rabbi Levi said: Great is peace, for it is [the mention of] peace that concludes the priestly blessing, as it is said: “[May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you] and grant you peace” (Num 6:26)11. Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel said: Great is peace, for the Holy One, blessed be He, only wrote in the Torah words that were not in it, for the sake of peace. These are the words: When Jacob died, “And Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead” (Gen 50:15). What did they do? They went to Bilhah and said to her, “Go to Joseph and say to him, ‘Your father commanded before his death, saying…’ (Gen 50:16): ‘Thus shall you say to Joseph: Oh, please forgive the transgression of your brothers and their sin and the evil they did to you; and now, please forgive the transgression of the servants of the God of your father’ (Gen 50:17)12. But Jacob never spoke any of these words. They themselves invented this thing. Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel said: See how much ink has been spilled, how many quills have been broken, how many parchments have been lost, and how many children have been beaten to learn a word that was not in the Torah! Look, then, how great is the power of peace! Likewise you find the same concerning Sarah. When the ministering angels came to Abraham and said to him: “At the appointed time I will return to you, and Sarah shall have a son” (Gen 18:10), Sarah laughed within herself, saying: “After I have grown old, shall I have pleasure, and my husband is old?” (Gen 18:12)13. Yet the Holy One, blessed be He, did not tell this to Abraham. He only said to him: “Why did Sarah laugh, saying, ‘Shall I indeed bear a child, now that I am old?’” (Gen 18:13)14. And why all this? For the sake of peace. And in the world to come, when the Holy One, blessed be He, will bring back the exiles to Jerusalem, He will bring them back in peace, as it is said: “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem” (Ps 122:6), and it is also said: “Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river” (Isa 66:12)15.’

2.2. Hermeneutical Explanation of the Midrashic Text

The midrashic text presented here—translated as literally as possible—addresses the issue of peace as its primary concern. It opens with an interpretation of Leviticus 7:11, which introduces the šǝlāmîm sacrifices, a distinctive offering whose consumption is divided among the sacrificant, the priests (Kohanim), and God. In this act of ritual sharing, the sages discern the incipient manifestation of peace itself. The midrashic opening accordingly unfolds through a series of pronouncements, each elaborating upon the magnitude of peace within a distinct theological register. First, peace is anchored in the very nature of the šǝlāmîm offering, so named for its capacity to restore concord (šālôm) between God and the children of Israel, transforming the sacrificial act into a moment of reconciliation. Second, Rabbi Eleazar ha-Kappar attributes to peace a force so encompassing that it can suspend the operation of divine justice: even when Israel binds itself to idolatry, the Attribute of Judgment refrains from striking. Third, Rabbi Levi ascribes to peace a liturgical pre-eminence, for it alone concludes the priestly benediction, thereby sealing the sequence of divine blessings with the fullness of harmony.

In these three brief pronouncements, one can discern a shared concern with a dynamic of erasure and withdrawal. First, because the ritual functioning of the šǝlāmîm, involving a tripartite sharing of the offering, ultimately culminates in a bipartite peace between God and the children of Israel, thereby effacing the Kohanim from the final dynamic of reconciliation. Second, because in prompting the Attribute of Justice to refrain from striking, the midrash evokes a suspension of the physical trace of punishment, a withdrawal that erases the visible sign of divine retribution.16 Finally, because the sacrificial act itself gives way to the words of prayer, the offering is in effect erased and replaced by the verbal act: a movement from material sacrifice to linguistic mediation.

Such a threefold gesture of erasure—of priest, of punishment, and of offering—prepares the ground for the final and most compelling statement of the midrash, attributed to Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel, in which the divine act of “writing what was not written” will radicalize this logic of effacement into the very texture of revelation and provide the dynamic impetus for the emergence of peace.

The midrash now unfolds through two narrative examples, both drawn from the Book of Genesis. In the first, the midrash adds an unwritten stratum to the episode of Jacob’s death and the ensuing reconciliation among the brothers. Fearing Joseph’s vengeance after their father’s passing, the brothers enlist Bilhah—Jacob’s concubine from the time when Rachel was still barren (Gen 35:19–22)—a discreet yet trustworthy figure, to act as intermediary.17 She is charged with informing Joseph that, before his death, Jacob had commanded him to forgive his brothers and to maintain peace with them. At this point, the midrash introduces a striking subtext to the narrative: no matter how much one studies, no matter how much effort or ink is expended, nowhere in the Torah can one find any trace of such a command issued by Jacob. Jacob never spoke these words of reconciliation. From this absence, the midrash concludes as follows: “The Holy One, blessed be He, wrote in the Torah words that were not in it—for the sake of peace.”

The second example is more personal and intimate. It concerns the bond of love and trust between Abraham and Sarah. The narrative sequence, as presented by the midrash, is once again straightforward. As Abraham and Sarah grow old, God’s messengers appear to announce the forthcoming birth of a son. Sarah, incredulous, laughs: will her husband, so advanced in age, truly be able to father a child? Yet when Abraham later asks God about the reason for Sarah’s laughter, God reports only her awareness of her own age, omitting any reference to Abraham’s condition. In this way, the midrash suggests not merely that God “wrote in the Torah words that were not in it for the sake of peace,” but that He also erased from the Torah words that were once written, again, for the sake of peace.

With these two examples, we arrive at what may be termed a “beyond writtenness.” By this expression we mean to evoke—and ultimately move beyond—the fundamental insight of Levinas, articulated in his celebrated formulation Beyond the Verse.18 The midrashic intention is no longer hermeneutical in the conventional sense; it no longer seeks merely to interpret the text, but to gesture toward the necessity of discerning its unwritten trace. This unwritten assumes a twofold modality: on the one hand, that which has been erased, or withdrawn from the textual surface for the sake of peace; on the other, that which resists inscription, for its very possibility depends upon remaining unwritten, preserving the openness that sustains the creative potential of peace.

The midrash concludes by turning its focus toward eschatological times: peace, it tells us, will accompany the children of Israel in their final return from exile. Yet rather than offering a merely pious textual affirmation—as one might be led to expect from the two concluding citations (Ps 122:6 and Isa 66:12)—the passage invites a more ambitious, even audacious, reading. The Hebrew imperative šaʾălû, šǝlôm yǝrûšālāim (Ps 122:6), traditionally rendered “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem,” can equally be read in its interrogative sense: “Ask peace, [you people of] Jerusalem.” ‘Ask peace, you who have just returned from exile, ask peace how it came about.’19 The shift from petition to inquiry reconfigures the verse from a call to await peace to an injunction to investigate how peace itself comes into being. In this semantic reconfiguration, the final citation from Isaiah suddenly carries a deeper resonance: peace will come as a stream, as a naḥal šôṭēp, an “overflowing current” that departs from its riverbed with unrestrained force. So, the midrash seems to suggest that peace comes about not in an orderly manner nor through the channels of traditional diplomatic reasoning, but through the unexpected impetus of initiatives that break away from the traces of conventional wisdom and accepted thought.

2.3. The Dynamic of Inversion

Having presented the hermeneutical framework of the midrash, our inquiry now turns to what is most at stake: the dynamic through which the text itself generates a midrashic conception of the “ways of peace.” It is this dynamic, rather than the textual structure as such, that constitutes the primary focus of the present analysis. What, in effect, enables the midrashic sages to imply that the realization of peace demands a gesture of erasure and withdrawal from the written trace, culminating in an audacious call for unwrittenness?

Two distinct moments can be discerned within the midrash: the first concerns the three initial rabbinic voices; the second comprises the two examples invoked by Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel to elucidate his conception of the emergence of peace.

In its first part, the dynamic of erasure—illustrated through the threefold examples of the “greatness of peace,” as previously outlined—arises from well-established hermeneutical postures. The anonymous voice that opens the midrash reads, quite straightforwardly, the notion of šālôm out of šǝlāmîm: peace is textually inscribed within the term šǝlāmîm, and the implied effacement of the Kohanim appears merely as a byproduct of transforming the technical ritual of the peace-offering into the realization of peace between God and Israel. For Rabbi Eleazar ha-Kappar as well, the emergence of peace—conceived as the erasure of the physical traces of idolatry and the suspension of the physical scar that the Attribute of Justice might otherwise be entitled to leave—also derives from direct scriptural interpretation. Both the trace and its erasure are engraved in the following verse: “Ephraim is bound to idols (ḥăbûr ʿăṣabbîm); let him be” (Hos 4:17). The ḥăbûr ʿăṣabbîm that one might translate literally as “the scare of the craving”20 denotes the inscription of a physical trace, while the last part of the verse, hannaḥ-lô, “let him be,” derives from the root nûaḥ, now in its causative form, thus extending beyond its original semantic range to suggest a gesture of withdrawal and effacement (Jastrow 1903, p. 885). Hence, here too, the thought of erasure simply emanates from the verse and finds, in its textuality, the needed authority. Rabbi Levi’s reflection on the greatness of peace, grounded in the concluding words of the priestly blessing (Num 6:26), is similarly anchored in textual authority. The substitution of the sacrificial trace by the verbal articulation of prayer becomes conceivable only insofar as it is already prefigured within the textual economy of Scripture. In this regard, the midrashic formulation is particularly revealing: Rabbi Levi invokes the ḥatîmâ, literally, “the engraved conclusion” of the blessing, to propose a displacement of the material trace of a sacrifice by the linguistic one, taking the form of a prayer. The intuition of an effacement is, consequently, only made possible because of the verse cited.

This is not so in the second part of the midrash.

Rabban Gamliel’s reasoning rests on two biblical narratives to which he appends a supplementary sub-narrative. It is precisely through this act of hermeneutic supplementation that the possibility of peace emerges: through what is not inscribed in the text and nowhere to be found. In this second movement, peace arises from the dialectic between omission and addition, from the recognition that textual lacunae and interpretive interpolations jointly constitute the generative space in which new meaning, and thus reconciliation, becomes possible. The theological move involved is particularly audacious. The Torah itself clearly forbids any such alternation to the sacred written text: “You shall not add to the word that I command you, nor shall you subtract from it, that you may keep the commandments of the Lord your God which I command you” (Deut 4:2).21 At the same time, the generative dynamic of such an audacious posture emerges from the careful and painstaking labour of engaging the entirety of the Torah: what the midrash evokes as the ink spilled, the quills broken, and the parchments lost. Only one who immerses himself fully in Torah study, within and through the text, can begin to discern the contours of its unwritten sub-strata.

Hence, the dynamic of the emergence of the unwritten, understood here as the emergence of creative and effective paths toward peace, appears at the very point of junction between exegesis and revelation, between the finite word of Scripture and the infinite work of its interpretation. Yet it is not interpretation per se that generates this movement, but the emergence of the unwritten from within the very dynamic of interpretation itself. It is in this threshold space that the Torah, while prohibiting addition and subtraction, paradoxically produces the interpretive excess through which peace itself becomes thinkable.22

It is this unique sense of a dynamic of emergence of peace from the unwritten sub-strata of a text that we now wish to explore, in shifting the focus from rabbinic to patristic texts. Our interest will primarily rest with the dynamic of inversion introduced by recent Popes and by Magisterial teaching within the reception of the Augustinian moral tradition. Whereas the rabbinic imagination locates the possibility of peace in the unwritten potentialities of Scripture, Popes from Benedict XV (1914–1922) re-situate it within the domain of moral theology, transforming Augustine’s doctrine of the bellum iustum (or as it became known in the later elaborated “just war theory”) into an ethics of “just peace.” The purpose of this movement from the rabbinic to the Christian horizon is not merely comparative: it seeks to test whether the Christian reconfiguration of the Augustinian paradigm can enrich and refine the very notion of the unwritten, allowing the dynamic of its emergence to unfold beyond the textual, into the ethical and political sphere. In this sense, the encounter between the two interpretive traditions offers not only a contribution to Jewish–Christian dialogue, but also a broader hermeneutical insight into the creative conditions under which peace itself may emerge from the unthinkable and become, against all odds, thinkable.

3. The Patristic Lens: Reassessing the Augustinian Tradition of Just War

Turning to the patristic Christian tradition, we can observe that ethical reflections on war and on contemporary debates (such as those concerning social solidarity and migration) often revolve around the concepts of the ordo amoris (order of love) and bellum iustum (just war). Both notions originate in Augustinian thought, and, as is well established, Augustine of Hippo (354–430 CE), bishop of Hippo Regius, honored as both the “Doctor of the Church” and “Doctor Gratiae,” remains a formative and enduring authority within the Christian tradition (Chadwick 2009; Deane 1963).

Augustine is traditionally regarded as the father of what would later develop into the Christian theory of “just war.” While it is more accurate to speak of his attitudes and approach to the question rather than a fully articulated “doctrine,” it remains the case that “the whole Western just-war tradition that follows from the fifth century AD onward, in both its Christian and secular forms, traces its roots not to Plato or Aristotle, nor even to earlier Church Fathers, but rather to Augustine” (Mattox 2006, p. 2). Indeed, the bishop of Hippo was the first theologian to undertake an in-depth reflection on the question of “just war,” introducing the following well-known criteria: legitima potestas (i.e., only God or public authorities possess the moral and legal right to declare and conduct war; C. Faust. 22, 74), iusta causa (i.e., just cause, aimed at correcting a grave injustice or defending the innocent; Quaest. in Hept. 6, 10), and necessitas (i.e., last resort, invoked only after all reasonable attempts at peace have failed; De civ. Dei 19, 7) (Mattox 2006, pp. 1–13 and 44–91; Lenihan 1988; Markus 1983; Looney 2016).

The Latin Church Father’s reflections, however, are grounded primarily in moral principles and ethical guidelines, rather than a fully structured system. It was Thomas Aquinas who subsequently articulated a systematic, logically structured set of criteria (i.e., legitimate authority; just cause; right intention) in his Summa Theologiae (II–II, 40; II–II, 29). These principles are developed within the broader framework of the section De caritate (“On Charity”) and incorporate the Aristotelian notion of choosing the lesser of two evils, drawn from the Nicomachean Ethics (1097a–b). Aquinas’s synthesis ultimately became foundational for later theological and philosophical reflection. In the case of the “Doctor Angelicus,” it is particularly noteworthy that his doctrine of just war, though firmly grounded in Augustine’s authority, did not primarily engage the original (Augustinian) texts, but instead drew most of his citations from older collections, most notably the Decretum Gratiani (compiled ca. 1140) (Kany 2012, pp. 31–35; Russell 1975, pp. 258–59; Beestermöller 1990, pp. 11–57). This raises the question of whether the reception of Augustine’s writings, often extracted from its original context and argumentation, altered the meaning of his (theological) ideas. Accordingly, this study aims to move beyond the textual excerpts to reconstruct the underlying theology (which became later hidden and “unwritten”) that shaped the reception and development of “just war theory.”

Following these insights, our objectives are twofold: first, to uncover the historical and hermeneutical context of Augustine’s ideas; and second, to examine how their reception contributed to the dynamics of the evolution of “just war theory” (an exploration that, given the scope and focus of this article, does not claim to be exhaustive) and, in more recent centuries, to the rediscovery of the “theology of peace” that underpins the Church Father’s thought.

3.1. The Hermeneutical Reconsideration of the Augustinian Tradition

It follows from the foregoing that Augustine is frequently regarded as a “theologian of war,” insofar as Christian just war thinking is commonly traced back to his writings (Russell 1999). Through them, a sustained tradition of theological reflection on the moral legitimation of warfare was introduced into Christian theological ethics. In this respect, Augustine’s contribution is often interpreted as marking a departure from the radical pacifism characteristic of the early Church, which, following the teaching of the Gospel, understood the proclamation of the “kingdom of peace” to be central to the message of Jesus Christ.

The radical pacifism that predominated during the first three centuries of Christianity—at a time when concerns such as social justice or the transformation of political order lay largely beyond the community’s horizon, and when authors such as Origen, Hippolytus, and Tertullian maintained that Christians should neither enlist as soldiers (not least because of the cultic sacrifices required for the divinized Roman emperor) nor bear arms (Cahill 1994; Leppin 2018, pp. 345–415; Swift 1983, pp. 110–16)—was fundamentally altered in the Constantinian era, when the emergence of a Christian empire entailed new demands for defence and for the political, social, and religious preservation of order.

It was within this context that Boniface, a Roman official and recent convert to Christianity, sought Augustine’s guidance on whether the use of military force and violence could be morally permissible for a Christian. In his response (Letter 189, dated to 417), Augustine appeals to biblical figures such as David, Cornelius (Acts 10:1–33), and the centurion (Mt 8:8–10) to argue that “you must not think that no one who serves as a soldier, using arms for warfare, can be acceptable to God” (Ep. 189, 4). Drawing further on 1Cor 7:7 (“each one has his own gift from God, one in this way, another in that”), Augustine distinguishes between those who combat invisible enemies through prayer and those who are called to resist visible enemies, such as invading barbarians. Such struggle, he contends, is permissible because “it is necessary in this age (in hoc saeculo necesse est) for the citizens of the kingdom of heaven, surrounded as they are by the lost and the impious, to be vexed by temptations.”23

For Augustine, this necessity arises from the fallen condition of humanity (Gen 3), in which human nature has been corrupted and inclined toward evil. As a result, war and destruction are enduring realities, driven by disordered desire (such as libido dominandi) that manifests itself at every level of human community, from the family to the state, as a will to dominate and conquer. Consequently, the coercive power of the state becomes indispensable in the hands of legitimate authority, serving to uphold legal order and to secure at least a minimal form of peaceful coexistence within human society. This dialectical conception of war and peace resonates with the well-known maxim of the Roman writer Vegetius: Si vis pacem, para bellum (“If you want peace, prepare for war”).

In addressing these ethically contested matters, Augustine also draws upon the Roman philosophical tradition, particularly Cicero (106–43 BCE), who was the first to employ the term bellum iustum in De officiis (I, 34–40) (Keller 2012a, 2012b, pp. 40–83). Guided by Stoic principles, Cicero maintained that a morally constrained and legitimate war, undertaken only when absolutely necessary to confront injustice, could serve the ultimate aim of establishing lasting peace. Augustine adopts and develops this insight in his letter, writing that “Peace ought to be what you want, war only what necessity demands (Pacem habere debet voluntas, bellum necessitas). Then God may free you from necessity and preserve you in peace. For you don’t seek peace in order to stir up war; no—war is waged in order to obtain peace. Be peacemaker, therefore, even in war” (Ep. 189, 6).

On this basis, Augustine distinguishes between two forms of peace: a “human peace,” valued for the temporary security it affords, and a far greater “divine peace,” characterized by its everlasting and unassailable security. Significantly, this distinction is already present in his Tractates on the Gospel of John, composed between 414 and 416. In Tractate 77 (Halton 1994, pp. 101–5), Augustine reflects on John 14:27 (“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives”), where he differentiates between the peace that Christ leaves to believers in this world and the peace that properly belongs to Christ himself: namely, the eschatological and perfect peace promised to the faithful. Augustine further explains that the peace left to believers may be more accurately described as “our peace” rather than Christ’s own peace, since it remains incomplete and fragile. Although Christians possess a certain form of peace insofar as they delight in the law of God “after the inward man,” this peace is imperfect, for they continue to experience the conflict between the law of the mind and the law at work in their members. Similarly, peace within human relationships, grounded in mutual love and trust, is likewise partial, since the inner thoughts of one another’s hearts remain hidden. Such peace, though genuinely bestowed by Christ and therefore deriving from him, falls short of the fullness of peace that Christ himself possesses. Only in the eschatological fulfilment—when all sources of inner and interpersonal discord have been overcome—will believers share fully in that divine peace, enjoying a state of complete harmony with one another.

A closely related line of argument appears in The City of God (Ramsey 2012), where Augustine—drawing on the same, albeit unexpected, scriptural foundations (Job 7:1; Mt 6:12)—distinguishes between the “peace of Babylon,” that is, the peace attainable in this earthly life, and the final peace of blessedness, in which no disordered inclinations remain and no rebellion is experienced either within the self or from external forces (De civ. Dei 19, 26–27). Nevertheless, Augustine emphasizes that because the two cities (the heavenly City of God and the earthly City of Man) are intermingled in history, the peace of this world remains beneficial and even necessary. Accordingly, following the exhortation of Jeremiah, believers are called to seek the peace and prosperity of the earthly city and to pray for Babylon, “for in its peace you will find your peace” (cf. Jer 29:7).

Within this framework, Augustine understands earthly and fragile peace to provide the context in which the notion of a “just war” may arise. War, he argues, can be considered just only insofar as it responds to the injustice of an aggressor: an injustice that, precisely because it is a manifestation of human wrongdoing and sinfulness, ought to be a cause of grief for every morally upright person, even when it compels the wise man to wage just wars (De civ. Dei 19, 7). Ultimately, Augustine insists, the proper aim of war is peace: “peace is the end sought for by war” (unde pacem constat belli esse optabilem finem; 19, 12).

At the same time, Augustine remains acutely aware of the “monstrous, horrifying, and disastrous evils (mala tam magna, tam horrenda, tam saeua)” inherent in the misery of warfare (19, 7), which should be avoided whenever possible. He therefore distinguishes between “unjust wars,” motivated by libido dominandi, and “just wars,” which are waged either in response to clear violations of justice or in obedience to a divine command. Notably, however, Augustine judges many of the wars conducted by the Roman Empire to be unjust, thereby underscoring the critical and non-triumphalist nature of his just war reasoning (Pizzorni 1995, pp. 73–94; Cassi 2013, pp. 89–101).

Augustine’s reflections on just war must be situated within two interrelated contemporary contexts. First, Christian pacific teaching (particularly as articulated in the Sermon on the Mount) was accused by Roman critics of being politically impractical and incapable of sustaining civic order. Second, in his polemic against the Manichaeans and their rigorist pacifism, Augustine sought to defend the Old Testament and its offensive wars lead by God.

In response to the first critique, Augustine argued that Christianity does not exclude the use of coercion as such but rather permits it within the strictly limited framework of a “just war.” In a postlapsarian world marked by sin and disorder, the exercise of coercive force is therefore not intrinsically reprehensible. Augustine’s concise formulation of just war—adapted, as noted above, from Cicero—appears only once, in the Questions on the Heptateuch (dated to 419/420), where he states that “Just wars are normally defined as those which avenge wrongdoing (iusta autem bella ea definiri solent, quae ulciscuntur iniurias), as when a nation or city that is to be attacked in war has either failed to punish what its own people have done wrongly or to return what was wrongfully seized” (Quaest. in Hept. 6, 10) (Ramsey 2016, pp. 362–63). This concise definition allows for significant interpretive latitude, as Augustine does not provide detailed guidance regarding the specific forms of wrongdoing that would justify recourse to war.

Nevertheless, drawing on passages such as Numbers 21 and Joshua 8, Augustine maintains that any war waged in obedience to a divine command must be regarded as just, since those who fight in such circumstances act not from sinful libido but from obedience, and are therefore free from moral culpability. More generally, Augustine insists that wise rulers undertake just wars only when compelled by the injustice of an aggressor (De civ. Dei 19, 7). The defence of the patria, its citizens, and its property constitutes a legitimate cause for war (3, 10), as does the wrongful denial of innocent passage (Quaest. in Hept. 4, 44).

Secondly, the Manichaeans, most notably bishop Faustus, contrasted the teachings of the Old and New Testaments, claiming that Christ’s pacifism conflicted with the violent acts commanded by God in the Hebrew Bible. In Contra Faustum (22, 74–76, dated to 397/398) (Ramsey 2007, pp. 351–53), Augustine counters this argument, maintaining that a Christian state may legitimately declare war without contravening New Testament injunctions against retaliating evil with evil, since such instructions pertain primarily to inward disposition (praeparatio cordis) rather than outward action. Augustine further identifies the true evils of war as the love of violence, revenge, implacable enmity, and the lust for power. He contends that morally upright individuals may engage in war to punish these evils, provided it is carried out in obedience to God or legitimate authority and in defence of public safety. The justice of a war, he emphasizes, depends on its purpose and the authority sanctioning it. When waged under lawful or divine authority, with soldiers acting to protect the community rather than for personal vengeance, war may be considered righteous and aligned with the natural order, which aims to secure peace.

In conclusion, this brief overview illustrates that the question of the moral and legal justification of war, like the reality of war itself, has been a persistent concern throughout human history. A survey of Augustine’s writings—particularly when considered in light of their reception history24—reveals that, within the framework of tradition, one can find arguments both for and against the justice of war. Yet when Augustine’s reflections on just war, composed during periods of profound turbulence and the decline of Rome, are examined within their historical and hermeneutical context, they emerge as part of a systematic theology oriented toward peace (Weissenberg 2005; Justenhoven 2021, pp. 41–48; Brachtendorf 2012).

While not unfamiliar with violence, Augustine regarded war with abhorrence, regarding it as a consequence of sin that fosters numerous human desires and lusts. His writings do not glorify warfare; rather, they contain repeated laments over its cruelty. As he wrote to Darius, a Roman official, in 429 (Letter 229), “However, greater glory still is merited by killing not men with swords, but war with words, and by acquiring or achieving peace not through war but through peace itself. For those who fight, if they are good men, are certainly aiming for peace, but still through bloodshed. By contrast, you were sent to avoid any blood being shed. For others, then, the one is a necessity; for you, the other is a joy.”

The overarching framework and the ultimate aim of Augustine’s thought was peace: the final and complete peace toward which all beings strive, which, in its fullest sense, is understood as pax omnium rerum tranquillitas ordinis, the tranquility or peacefulness of order (De civ. Dei 19, 13). In light of these observations, it is not an exaggeration to describe Augustine not as a “theologian of war,” but as a “theologian of peace” (quasi Doctor Pacis). This characterization could be further supported (anticipating the discussion in the following section) by the influence of Augustinian principles on the Gaudium et Spes pastoral constitution, which distinguishes between earthly peace and the peace of Christ, emphasizing that true peace is not merely the absence of war but “an enterprise of justice (opus iustitiae) [which] results from that order structured into human society (fructus exsistit ordinis humanae societati) by its divine Founder” (art. 78).

3.2. The Dynamic of Inversion: Tracing the Shift from Just War to Papal Discourses on Just Peace

The classical period of “just war theory” may be dated from Gratian, who compiled the Decretum, a foundational collection of canon law in the twelfth century, and Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274), one of the most influential scholastic thinkers, who articulated ethical criteria for the legitimate conduct of war, through the early modern scholastics Francisco de Vitoria (1483/1486–1546), who invoked the concept of ius gentium, and Francisco Suárez (1548–1617), a key Spanish scholastic theologian, who further developed and systematized the just war doctrine, to Hugo Grotius (1583–1645). Grotius, often regarded as the father of international law, integrated earlier theological reflections with an increasingly secular, rights-based framework for lawful warfare and conduct. These thinkers developed a systematic formulation of “just war” as a classical doctrine, grounded in theological, philosophical, social, and political reflection upon the largely ad hoc remarks articulated by Augustine—insights that, as noted above, were transmitted to subsequent generations primarily in fragmentary form through collected excerpts—and elaborated the principles governing ius ad bellum (justice in resorting to war) and ius in bello (justice in the conduct of war).25 In this process, it is unsurprising that the theological orientation toward peace that undergirds Augustine’s writings (i.e., their broader context and emphasis) was gradually obscured, becoming implicit (i.e., unwritten) or lost behind later schematic citations.26

The just war doctrine as developed in late scholasticism remained largely unchanged within theological discourse for several centuries. Nevertheless, it proved increasingly inadequate in fulfilling its original purpose: namely, to restrain the recourse to war by establishing stringent conditions for its permissibility and to mitigate the inhumanity of armed conflict. In the modern period, the doctrine entered a phase of crisis for several interrelated reasons. First, its foundational concepts (such as causa iusta) were formulated with a degree of indeterminacy that allowed for divergent and competing interpretations. Second, in practice, the theory proved susceptible to systematic abuse, as opposing parties could equally claim that their respective causes satisfied the criteria of justice, giving rise to the notion of bellum iustum ex utraque parte. Finally, under the conditions of modern warfare—particularly with the advent of weapons of mass destruction whose effects readily transcend national boundaries—the moral evaluation of war has become a fundamental and unprecedented problem (Weber 1999, pp. 263–72).

The historical and theological developments of the twentieth century contributed to a paradigm shift in Catholic social teaching, moving the emphasis from “just war” to “just peace.” Consequently, the dynamic of the so-called “unwritten” or “hidden” theology—what, in our argument, corresponds to Augustine’s theology of peace—re-emerged at the forefront of Magisterial teaching, unfolding beyond textual frameworks and doctrinal criteria into the broader ethical reflection (Reichberg 2012).

Pope Benedict XV, whose pontificate (1914–1922) coincided with the First World War, can be regarded as a key initiator of a shift in attitudes, rejecting the notion of a just war even at a theoretical level (not as a result of theological reflection on the just war tradition, but as a response to the nature of modern warfare) and emphasizing the necessity of a “theology of (peace) diplomacy,” already articulated in his first message, Ubi Primum (Coppa 2008, p. 80; Beck 2015). His renewed engagement with Augustine’s writings is evident in several of his encyclicals; in Ad beatissimi apostolorum (Pope Benedict XV 1914), he draws on Augustinian themes, such as the “tranquil stability and peacefulness of human relations” (art. 14); in Quod iam diu (Pope Benedict XV 1918), he calls for “giving the world a just and lasting peace” (art. 1); and in Pacem, Dei Munus Pulcherrimum (Pope Benedict XV 1920), he explicitly cites Augustine (De civ. Dei 19, 11), describing peace, the beautiful gift of God, as “the sweetest word to our hearing and the best and most desirable possession” (art. 1). Benedict XV’s pontificate thus marked a profound transformation in Catholic teaching on war and peace.

Furthermore, Pope John XXIII represented a decisive departure from the Constantinian approach to war. In his encyclical Mater et Magistra (1961), he emphasized that for Christians, the use of force is morally permissible only in a spiritual sense, echoing Origen’s teaching on spiritual warfare (Musto 1986, pp. 187–90). A more comprehensive paradigm shift regarding the ethics of war and peace occurred following the Cuban Missile Crisis, as articulated in Pacem in Terris (Pope John XXIII 1963). While Augustine said that the military profession has scriptural legitimacy as “a necessity of this age” (in hoc saeculo necesse est; Ep. 189,5), Pope John emphasized the turning point of the new era: “in this age which boasts of its atomic power, it no longer makes sense to maintain that war is a fit instrument with which to repair the violation of justice” (art. 127). The encyclical as a whole emphasizes the promotion of peace rather than deliberations on war, marking a radical shift from traditional casuistry toward a proactive peace agenda and a comprehensive re-evaluation of armed conflict, rejecting it as a legitimate means of resolving conflicts (Verstraeten 2016, pp. 12–13). Importantly, this condemnation is directed specifically at wars conducted in the nuclear age; it does not constitute a judgment on past conflicts, but rather serves as a moral guidance for present and future conduct.

The Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) addressed the issue of war in its Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World “Gaudium et Spes” (1965), specifically in Chapter 5 of Part II, within the broader discussion of peace. The document adopts “new approaches based on reformed attitudes” (art. 81): while it does not adopt a fully pacifist position, it affirms the right to just defence, “once every means of peaceful settlement has been exhausted” (art. 79). Nevertheless, its statements are fundamentally rooted in a commitment to peace (as noted above, the document’s understanding of peace is clearly rooted in Augustinian thought, for instance in art. 78), explicitly opposing the arms race and the notion of deterrence, which had previously been considered a legitimate form of defensive warfare. This pastoral orientation marks a significant shift in theological thinking, moving from the classicist framework of the neo-scholastic tradition toward a historically conscious perspective (Himes and Cahill 2005, pp. 291–93; Shadle 2011, pp. 98–102). Changes in the social context, radical transformations in the nature of warfare, and a re-evaluation of the Church’s role in the world collectively contributed to the hermeneutical shift in Catholic reflection on war and peace, as outlined by Gula (presented above in the Methodology Section).

Further examples and manifestations of this clearly identifiable paradigm shift regarding the question of “just war” can also be observed during the pontificate of Pope John Paul II, including the 1986 interreligious peace gathering in Assisi, as well as in the structure and language of the Catechism of the Catholic Church (arts. 2307–2317) and the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church (arts. 497–501). Pope Francis’ approach to peace similarly reflects this shift; in the encyclical letter Laudato si’, he emphasizes that “peace, justice and the preservation of creation are three absolutely interconnected themes” (art. 92) (Pope Francis 2015). Reflecting his pastoral sensitivity and attentiveness, he further underscores that, in the context of a “third world war in pieces,” war is fundamentally incapable of resolving conflicts, asserting passionately that “there is no such thing as a just war: they do not exist!” (Pope Francis 2022).

Upon his election, Pope Leo XIV opened his address with the memorable greeting, “Peace be with you all,” explicitly invoking the words of the risen Christ. In doing so, the new Pontiff articulated a vision of peace characterized as unarmed and disarming, humble and persevering. While it is necessarily premature to offer a comprehensive assessment of his pontificate or magisterial direction, both his choice of papal name (recalling Leo XIII’s enduring association with social justice) and his episcopal motto (in Illo uno unum), drawn from the Augustinian tradition, suggest a continuity with the (Augustinian) theology of peace. The motto echoes the Latin Church Father’s reflection at the conclusion of his Exposition on Psalm 127, where peace is described as the magnum bonum for which humanity longs, participating in the eschatological peace of the City of God: “not peace like that which people sometimes agree on among themselves: a treacherous, unstable, precarious, unreliable peace (…) [but] a peace that arises in Jerusalem, for the name of Jerusalem is interpreted as ‘vision of peace’ (…) this peace is what we preach to you, what we love, and what we want you to love. Those who even here are peacemakers attain this peace. Those who are at peace there beyond are the ones who have been peacemakers here, the ones who surround the Lord’s table like a nursery of young olive trees” (Ramsey 2004, p. 115).

In sum, the examination of papal statements and Magisterial teaching indicates that, although the Church’s internal disposition (i.e., the promotion and pursuit of peace) has remained consistent, its external expressions and practical orientations have necessarily evolved. Since the Second Vatican Council, there has been a noticeable decline in references to “just war,” accompanied by a growing emphasis on initiatives and frameworks oriented toward “just peace.” At the same time, this shift in the Catholic understanding of just war has facilitated a revival of Augustinian peace theology (which became hidden or underexplored for centuries in the tradition), fostering a renewed and fresh engagement with Augustine’s reflections on the reality of war as situated within a broader theological vision of peace. Such a culture of peace challenges the old, traditional maxim attributed to Vegetius and invites its reformulation: the contemporary ethical imperative becomes Si vis pacem, crea illam (“If you want to peace, create it”) (Martínez 2001).

4. Prospective Conclusion: Shared Dynamics and Shared Risks

The two strands of argument developed in the preceding pages proceed from markedly different methodological approaches, each situated within and governed by the recognized norms of its respective tradition. The midrashic analysis has sought to remain faithful to the close reading and interpretive practices characteristic of rabbinic thought, while the patristic study, which stands at the centre of the second part of the article, has been conducted according to a historical and hermeneutical method with a reception-critical orientation. In both cases, the analysis foregrounds the decisive role of the reader, situated in a specific historical moment and intellectual context, who actively constructs a renewed reading of the meaning of a received tradition.

That these distinct methodological paths nonetheless converge in the emergence of what we have termed a “dynamic of inversion” is a striking result and one that merits careful consideration. In both cases, whether in midrashic interpretation or in the Augustinian legacy, what comes to the forefront is the articulation of a renewed conception of peace that is not explicitly inscribed in the authoritative texts themselves, indeed if one could dare the expression, an “unwritten legacy.” This conception emerges through a critical and attentive engagement with the tradition, whether with the Torah as it is reread within midrashic hermeneutics, or with florilegia of Augustine’s writings as they are mediated through later ecclesial receptions of the patristic corpus.

But what does this “unwritten legacy” truly reveal and what are its potential risks?

The desire and hermeneutical ability to discover in received religious teachings unwritten values and ideas must be seen, first, as a meaningful testimony to the unspoken acceptance of the fundamental insufficiency of Scripture and traditions. Levinas expressed this idea in unequivocal terms when he wrote that “the life of the talmudist [understand here, the rabbinic reader of Scripture] is nothing but the permanent renewal of the letter through the intelligence” (Levinas 1990, p. 79). It must be noted that it is not the renewal of Scripture through Scripture, but more significantly and through the activity of the mind, the rereading of the letter that discovers what is, in truth, not in the letter. Even as the rabbinic tradition affirms, in a programmatic and pious register, the claim that “turn it [the Torah] and turn it again, for everything is in it” (Pirkei Avot 5:22), it also acknowledges, often implicitly, that the Torah alone does not suffice as a self-contained repository of meaning. Rabbinic interpretation thus operates within a tension between textual fullness and hermeneutical openness, in which new meaning is legitimately produced rather than merely retrieved. In the Church tradition, a similar tension can also be found, which affirms a living and dynamic relationship among Sacred Scripture, Sacred Tradition, and the intellectus fidei, allowing for a permanent renewal—or deepening and fresh expression—of their meaning without altering the deposit of faith (depositum fidei). This principle involves growth in understanding through study, contemplation, and lived experience, ensuring that the “letter” (the articulated content) is continually refined while preserving its substantive truth.27 Pope Francis echoes this perspective by underscoring that tradition is a dynamic reality that “develops and grows,” being “consolidated by years, enlarged by time, refined by age” (citing St. Vincent of Lérins), and oriented toward fulfilment rather than doctrinal alteration (Pope Francis 2017). As Dei Verbum affirms, “the words of the holy fathers witness to the presence of this living tradition” (art. 8). Consequently, its meaning deepens and transforms as readers mature spiritually, revealing new dimensions of insight and relevance to their lives, and serving as a continual source of self-reflection and guidance at every stage of faith.

This insight finds a classical formulation in Gregory the Great’s axiom, Sacra Scriptura crescit cum legente (“the Sacred Scriptures grow with the one who reads them”). The dynamic of rereading and interpretive inversion that leads to renewed conceptualization and the discovery of previously implicit (i.e., “unwritten”) values and insights is already evident in Augustine’s thought. In the Retractationes, the Latin Church Father revisits and refines his own earlier interpretations (at times explicitly abandoning previous positions), thereby exemplifying intellectual humility, spiritual maturation, and the conviction that the pursuit of truth necessarily entails continual growth in understanding, as intelligence yields deeper insight over time. Drawing on 2Cor 3:6, he insists that the “letter,” when isolated from understanding, can “kill,” whereas “spirit” gives life by illuminating the letter rather than abolishing it: “nothing is more healthful than that it [the mysteries contained therein] should be unveiled in the spirit” (nihil autem salubrius quam spiritu revelari) (Teske 2010, p. 63). This formulation articulates a conception of renewal grounded in the recognition of the enduring limits of human comprehension and the consequent need for ongoing interpretive engagement. Within the life of the Church, such development unfolds through the interplay of reason, theological reflection, and Magisterial discernment. Reflecting on the Second Vatican Council, Pope Paul VI articulated this process through the complementary notions of aggiornamento (updating) and rinnovamento (renewal), understood as drawing “old things and new” from the treasury of Tradition. Frequently realized through ressourcement, or a return to the sources, this approach informs the methodological intention of the present article.

Thus, the emergence of unwritten ways of peace, inverting the dynamic of received traditions imbued with authority, can serve as a healthy reminder of the shared abilities of our two religious traditions to move, quite freely, beyond the pure confines of piousness and the self-sufficiency of past wisdom.

From this initial conclusion, a second and equally significant implication follows. In both religious traditions, the ethical core from which paths toward peace may emerge is conceived as concealed, awaiting human creativity and interpretive audacity in order to be brought to articulation. This raises a further question: why does such concealment, shared by both traditions, appear to be not merely accidental but structurally necessary? The hypothesis we wish to formulate presently, in a concise way and without further development, is that ethical normativity is secured not by external authority—be it Scripture or authoritative received traditions—but by the responsibility of the subject. As Levinas repeatedly insinuated, ethics is rooted in the relation to the Other, and it is this irreducible responsibility that precedes reciprocity and constitutes subjectivity itself (Levinas 1969, p. 215; 1985, p. 98). Consequently, an ethics of peace that would be grounded solely in what is commanded, written and explicit, without engaging the irreplicable prism of a responsible and audacious human rereading of tradition, would not yet be ethical in the full sense of the term. Such an approach would reduce ethical action to obedience, rather than understanding it as the response of a responsible subject who assumes the task of interpreting and, when necessary, inverting or reconfiguring inherited norms in light of concrete human vulnerability.

Yet this same intellectual capacity, which makes it possible to move beyond a form of piety confined to the written and the commanded—when such piety becomes oppressive by presenting itself as sufficient unto itself, and which calls for an ethics of responsibility grounded in the creative emergence of the “unwritten” rather than mere obedience to inherited prescriptions—also carries within it abyssal risks that cannot be ignored. If the unwritten can indeed emerge so freely from the received written words of the tradition, at times daring the inversion of the written words, does this interpretative movement, encouraged and ethically necessary, not open the door to all possibilities of heretical thinking? What prevents then a reader, even if and well intentioned, to discover in Scripture and tradition, through the strength of his hermeneutical skills, posture that, unlike the ways of peace, would venture into highly disputable ideals and condemnable ethical stands? Such examples, sadly, abound. Radicals, be there Jewish or Christians (or in truth belonging to any religious traditions), have “authoritative texts” as their ideological playground, permitting their radicality to be, as it were, justified by the texts.

This risk, far from being external to the tradition, is inscribed within it and finds expression in a well-known biblical image. Reflecting on the apparent redundancy of Genesis 37:24, “the pit was empty; there was no water in it,” as the place into which Joseph was cast by his brothers, the classical rabbinic tradition (Bavli, Shabbat 22a, Yebamot 121a and Bereshit Rabbah 84:16), echoed by later commentators (Menachem Mendel Schneerson, Likutei Sichot, Parshat Vayeshev), as well as certain patristic interpretations,28 reads this verse as pointing beyond a simple statement of absence. The pit was not empty at all, but inhabited by snakes and scorpions. Read metaphorically, water is the life-giving vitality of Torah. Where that vitality is withheld by its readers, where the love of life and the humility required for responsible interpretation are lacking, the textual space becomes exposed to destructive forces. Scripture and traditions, be there Jewish or Christian, when deprived of their animating depth, never remain neutral. Snakes and scorpions are in them, only waiting to raise their heads, pointing to the always present dangers from within: the possibility of a “destructive unwritten,” emerging from the received texts.

The risk inherent in allowing the “unwritten” to emerge from received texts is unavoidable. Richard Rubenstein—a seminal thinker in post-Shoah theology, whose work forced a radical re-examination of inherited theological categories—once noted that “Knowledge of the negative consequences of unbelief does nothing to enhance the credibility of a belief system” (Rubenstein 1992, p. 173). Deliberately extended beyond its original polemical context, this observation supports the proposition advanced in this article: the potential negative consequences of interpretive audacity do not, in themselves, invalidate either the credibility or the necessity of such an approach. On the contrary, an explicit acknowledgment of these risks sharpens the ethical project developed in these pages, underscoring that the pursuit of peace requires not the security of closure, but the vigilance, humility, and responsibility of interpreters who recognize that meaning, once entrusted to human hands, is never without danger.