Fed up with a “gadfly” who disrupted the status quo, the
Greek authorities put Socrates—who is today regarded as one of the founders of
Western philosophy—on trial for allegedly corrupting the youth and for heresy. The uncompromising social critic had gotten
under the skins of the ruling class, relentlessly challenging the assumptions
of his day, daring those around him to question their lives, to take nothing
for granted, and to accept no authority but that of their own minds. Not surprisingly, Socrates was also accused
of undermining Greek democracy, and sentenced to death by drinking poison
hemlock. Socrates’ example can help us
understand one of the theories supporting the martyrdom cause of Archbishop Óscar A. Romero of El Salvador.
An earlier
post examined the argument by the Salvadoran Church that the hatred of
Archbishop Romero’s faith on the part of his killers could be established by
National Security Doctrine analysis, and today we turn to the argument that
hatred of his faith is also evident in their desire to kill him in order to
snuff out his irritating appeal to their guilt-ridden consciences. Like Archbishop Romero in 1980 A.D., Socrates
in 399 B.C. had become a pesky nuisance for his society. Socrates’ disciple, Plato, would later
describe his mentor as a “gadfly,” whose job was to sting and provoke society, which
he compared to a slow and dimwitted horse.
Insisting that his philosophical provocation was a needed social
contribution, Socrates declared that “The
unexamined life is not worth living,” and accepted his sentence rather than retracting his teachings. His willingness to challenge ideas he found unsound was
resented by some prominent intellectuals.
He also made powerful enemies when he denounced what he perceived as
corruption in Athenian democracy. His social
criticism became increasingly aggravating to the ruling elites, and he was
inevitably tried, convicted, and sentenced to death at the age of 70.
Similarly, Archbishop Romero’s criticisms of Salvadoran
society irritated the ruling class because of his uncompromising defense of the
poor and denunciation of the abuses committed against them. In his first major sermon, Romero anticipates the resistance that his
message will encounter, when he humbly states, “This bishop, the lowliest member of the family, chosen by God to be a
sign of unity ... graciously thanks you for joining him in giving the awaiting
world the Church’s word.” Later, when
Romero has recognized that he has become a major nuisance to the oligarchs, he pleads, “My sisters and
brothers, as Pastor, I invite you to listen to the hoarse and imperfect echo of
my words.” He insists, “Do not focus on the instrument but focus on
the One who bids me to tell you of God’s infinite love.” Appealing to the magisterium of Christ
Himself, the Archbishop entreats: “Be
converted! Be reconciled! Love one another! Become a family of the baptized, a
family of God’s children!” And
finally, desperate at finding that his words are falling on deaf ears, Romero extols, “If they do not want to listen to me, let
them at least listen to the voice of Pope John Paul II...”
But the Empire’s minions had hardened their hearts and shut their ears. Rather than heed his calls to conversion,
they begin a whisper campaign against him, to discredit him and defame him, to
make him appear contemptible to the army and to the armed bands of criminals
who carry out the extrajudicial killings of those branded as enemies of the
state. Although the motives for his
killing included political pretexts—that the Archbishop’s criticisms favored
the Marxist guerrillas, or that Romero’s tone may have been imprudent—the fact
that another part of the motive for his killing was to silence a critic who had
become intolerable to the ruling class is undeniable.
Like Socrates, Romero was killed for asking the powerful
to obey their consciences. This message
from his last Sunday sermon is unmistakable: “No soldier is obliged to obey an order against the law of God. No one
has to fulfill an immoral law. It is time to take back your consciences and to
obey your consciences rather than the orders of sin.” It was his death sentence. He was killed the following day.
Before his own conviction, Socrates defended his role as
dissenter, insisting that, “If you kill a
man like me, you will injure yourselves more than you will injure me.” Archbishop Romero would have agreed: “They can kill me but the voice of justice
can never be stilled.” Blinded by their misguided outrage, the persecutors wagered that they could snuff out the voice of conscience. As always, they were wrong.
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