Rev. Nancy Sehested, friend and co-laborer in the work for peace, recently asked this provocative question at a gathering of Christian women: Have we as a nation become the unjust judge to a widowed world? [1]

The story of the widow and the unjust judge (Luke 18:1-8) is one of my favorites among Jesus' parables. In a certain city, the story goes, there was a corrupt judge (imagine that). A corrupt elected official, who never gave God a moment's thought and had no regard for humanity. Just a heartbeat into the story, I already have questions. 

What corrupted this judge? What was the final straw? Was it raising money for his campaign from sources that asked him to compromise one too many times? Was it a failing marriage? Or was it simply the mundane routine of putting justice on the stand every single day? Of seeing the same problems over and over, and growing weary of hoping that change is even possible? Whatever it was, this judge's heart had long ago hardened like stale bread. 

Enter the widow. Though she lives in the same city as our judge, she leads quite a different existence. Because women had no inheritance rights in patriarchal cultures, widows were often exploited. When the widow walks on the scene of this parable, we know it's likely she's had some trouble. So the widow approaches the judge and demands her rights. She goes not once, not twice, but over and over and over. It's quite possible that this widow in Jesus' parable challenges all our assumptions... she is so assured, so persistent, so bothersome, that the judge who has consistently turned her away begins to re-think the logic of his stubborn ways. 

Perhaps, he thinks, the best thing for me in this case is to give the widow what she wants. One translation notes that he finally broke down because he feared being beaten and bruised by her pounding. This was a fierce and wise widow. 

Yet the corrupt judge granted justice not on the merits of her case, but because he was worn out by her persistence. 

It can be terribly tiring to be a persistent advocate for justice and peace. Those of us active in this twin struggle know just how high the burn out rate is. At some point, most of us are tempted to retreat from the brokenness of our world, particularly in these troubled times. And yet we are called to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God. We are called to love our neighbors and enemies. Jesus' story reminds us that we are called to trouble God with our worries, and elected officials with our cries for justice.

Back to Nancy's question: have we as a nation become the unjust judge to a widowed world? Has our national spirit hardened like stale bread?  Have we become deaf to the global cries for peace? Blind to the systemic injustices that render some invisible? Has our stubbornness prevented us from grasping a better way?

In this week's New York Times magazine, Noah Feldman articulates the case for speaking with our enemies. He states, "officially speaking, silence is our policy." We refuse to speak with Hamas. We don't want to talk to Iran. Feldman asks, "What's the point of not talking, especially when others are talking for us?" [2]

If our nation has become the unjust judge, then last week a widow emerged with a persistent voice for peace. One hundred religious leaders, from a diversity of traditions, launched the Words not War initiative. Their collective statement boldly claims, "We believe that a strategy of direct U.S. diplomatic engagement with Iran without preconditions is the surest means of reducing the nuclear danger and enhancing the security of the region. Pragmatically and morally, such direct negotiations offer the only realistic way to solve this crisis." [3]

Though the unjust judge was not swayed by moral arguments, he eventually tired of his stubborn ways. Why? Because the voice of the widow buzzed in his ear incessantly, like a bothersome mosquito. And he realized it just wasn't in his best interest to stay his present course. 

Our nation's course of action is even less sustainable. Responding to every threat on our nation's horizon with militarism isn't simply costly (at a time of burgeoning fiscal and trade deficits), it's foolish. Years into the Iraq debacle, a clear victory alludes us. We can pour guns and dollars into a lethal cocktail that we hope will solve the world's problems, but there's a limit to the effectiveness of combating violence with more violence. We can choose to fight instead of talk, but I believe that the voice of the widow will haunt us until we break the silence.