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Author: Morwenna Ludlow, Professor of Christian History and Theology, University of Exeter
Original article: https://theconversation.com/when-a-bishop-called-on-trump-to-have-mercy-she-was-following-the-old-christian-tradition-of-parrhesia-248494
When Bishop Mariann Budde closed her sermon at the National Prayer Service at Washington National Cathedral on January 21 she called on Donald Trump, who was sitting in front of her, “to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now”.
Trump demanded an apology later the same day from “the so-called Bishop” who he said was “nasty in tone”. Republican congressman Mike Collins even suggested that Budde (a US citizen) should be deported.
The bishop was building on a long tradition of Christian leaders using bold speech. But the idea of bold speech goes back further – to the concept of “parrhesia” in democratic Athens when every freeborn male citizen had the right to speak freely in public debates.
French philosopher Michel Foucault highlighted that with the decline of democracy, parrhesia came to mean boldly speaking truth to power. For instance, in the Roman Empire, it meant having the bravery to speak to an emperor, a governor, or one’s master as if one was their equal.
Early Christians picked up on this use of the term in the New Testament. The Acts of the Apostles describes the arrest of Peter and John for healing and preaching in Jerusalem and recounts that the assembled “rulers, elders and scribes” were amazed to hear such parrhesia from “uneducated and ordinary men”.
The apostles were so popular that the council released them after vainly threatening them to keep quiet. Peter and John’s own community of followers was even said to be so inspired by their bold example that they prayed to be given parrhesia too, a prayer which was immediately answered by the gift of the Holy Spirit (Acts 4:29, 31). Parrhesia here is seen as a powerful divine gift which enables ordinary people to challenge dominant religious authorities.
Several sermons on martyrs from John Chrysostom (who was apppointed as the archbishop of Constantinople in AD397) close with exhortations to emulate a martyr’s parrhesia. Chrysostom’s Discourse on Blessed Babylas and against the Greeks describes a bishop who reprimanded an emperor for murdering a child hostage. Chrysostom praises Bishop Babylas for moderate parrhesia, guided by reason, keeping anger and other emotions in check. It recalls the advice of the philosopher Plutarch in “How to tell a flatterer from a friend”: parrhesia must be respectful, in due measure and at the right moment.
Babylas’s moderate parrhesia produces astonished admiration from the crowd, but it provoked the outraged emperor to order Babylas’ execution.
Such stories set expectations for the behaviour of bishops even under Christian emperors. Scholars have shown how bishops have exploited their educational and social standing to leverage limited influence with governors and sometimes even emperors.
Gregory of Nazianzus tells how his friend Basil, a 4th century bishop, faced down the rage of an imperial representative who “roared like a lion till most men dared not approach him”, threatening “confiscation, banishment, torture, death”. When Basil refused to back down, the astonished official declared that no-one had spoken to him with such parrhesia. “Perhaps you’ve not met a bishop before,” Basil replied. “Generally, we know our place and we submit to the law. But where the interests of God are at stake, we care about nothing else.”
Two of the most famous examples of bishops who exercised parrhesia against imperial authority were the aforementioned Chrysostom and Ambrose (who became bishop of Milan in AD374). Both Chrysostom and Ambrose wrote substantial treatises which (among other things) defended the priest’s right to censure whomever was guilty of sin. Chrysostom warns that fear of powerful authorities causes people to flatter them rather than speaking the truth. Ambrose makes a similar point, reminding his audience that John the Baptist did not flatter King Herod, despite having reason to fear him. These comments resonate with Foucault’s observation that a speaker addressing someone more powerful must choose between flattery and parrhesia.
But the point of these examples is that by the 4th century there was a strong belief that part of the job of being a bishop was being prepared to speak boldly against wrongdoing – even if the wrongdoer was an emperor. And the power of their parrhesia was not so much the success (or otherwise) of their requests, but the way their bold speech sent ripples out into the wider community.
It is here that we can identify resonances with the case of Bishop Budde. First, parrhesia involves a direct, public but personal appeal to someone who could normally expect to be in authority over the speaker (the Jewish council of elders, a Roman governor).
The appeal is often made respectfully, but it is still risky and disruptive. It challenges the addressee’s declared vision of the truth, setting against it the speaker’s own sources of authority, including appeals to the divine.
In Budde’s case too we find this tension between respect and challenge. In an interview for the New Yorker, Budde reflected that she “needed to honor the office of the President and the fact that millions of people placed their trust in him”.
By addressing Trump respectfully, she acknowledged he had the authority to be merciful. But in drawing on the authority of scripture, Christian tradition and her episcopal role, she challenged the president’s moral authority on key questions of public policy.
Basil’s parrhesia astonished the imperial representative, but gave his friend Gregory a model for his own episcopal ministry. Similarly, Budde had a two-fold audience in mind. She used parrhesia respectfully but firmly to challenge the authority of a powerful person who did not expect to be challenged and was outraged when they were.
It is evident that Budde’s past experience of criticising Trump (she commented in the New York Times about Trump posing for a photo with a Bible in 2020) left her in no doubt that her “audacious” direct appeal to the president would bring anger on herself. But she also addressed a wider audience, intending that “people overhearing me talk to Trump” would hear words of solidarity and hope for them.
The power of Budde’s speech does not depend on the success of her appeal for mercy but in the disruptive nature of her challenge to Trump’s moral authority and the way it rippled out into wider audiences, provoking astonishment, anger or praise.
History prompts us to look harder at the power dynamics that create such varied and highly charged emotional responses. Now, as in the ancient world, it is in the absence of an open hearing for all, when bold speech is needed.