War and Religion in the Secular Age: Faith and Interstate Armed Conflict Onset 9781138337480, 9780429442339

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title
Copyright
Contents
Figures
Tables
Acknowledgements
Abbreviations
1 Introduction
2 How religious war ethics translate to state action
3 Research design, independent variable, and preliminary results
4 The restrictive war ethic in Christianity
5 The permissive war ethic in Islam
6 The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism
7 Conclusion
References
Appendix A Preferred GRPs of states
Appendix B Organization of religious scripture
Index

Citation preview

War and Religion in the Secular Age

Is religion a factor in initiating interstate armed conflict, and do different religions have different effects? Breaking new ground in political science, this book explores these questions both qualitatively and quantitatively, concluding that the answer is yes. Previous studies have focused on conflict within states or interstate aggression with overtly religious motivations; in contrast, Brown shows how religion affects states’ propensities to militarize even disputes that are not religious in nature. Different religions are shown to have different influences on those propensities, and those influences are linked to the war ethics inculcated in those religions. The book analyses and classifies war ethics contained in religious scripture and other religious classics, teachings of religions’ contemporary epistemic communities, and religions’ historical narratives. Using data from the new Religious Characteristics of States dataset project, qualitative studies are combined with empirical measurements of governments’ institutional preferences and populations’ cultures. This book will provide interesting insights to scholars and researchers in international security studies, political science, international law, sociology, and religious studies. Davis Brown is a Senior Research Associate at the Association of Religion Data Archives, a Non-Resident Fellow at Baylor University Institute for Studies of Religion, and is co-Principal Investigator of the Religious Characteristics of States dataset project.

Routledge Studies in Religion and Politics Edited by Jeffrey Haynes London Metropolitan University, UK

This series aims to publish high-quality works on the topic of the resurgence of political forms of religion in both national and international contexts. This trend has been especially noticeable in the post–Cold War era (that is, since the late 1980s). It has affected all the “world religions” (including Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, and Judaism) in various parts of the world (such as, the Americas, Europe, the Middle East and North Africa, South and Southeast Asia, and sub-Saharan Africa). The series welcomes books that use a variety of approaches to the subject, drawing on scholarship from political science, international relations, security studies, and contemporary history. Books in the series explore these religions, regions and topics both within and beyond the conventional domain of “church-state” relations to include the impact of religion on politics, conflict and development, including the late Samuel Huntington’s controversial—yet influential—thesis about “clashing civilizations.” In sum, the overall purpose of the book series is to provide a comprehensive survey of what is currently happening in relation to the interaction of religion and politics, both domestically and internationally, in relation to a variety of issues. Racialization, Islamophobia and Mistaken Identity The Sikh Experience Jagbir Jhutti-Johal and Hardeep Singh Religion in the Era of Postsecularism Edited by Uchenna Okeja War and Religion in the Secular Age Faith and Interstate Armed Conflict Onset Davis Brown Faith Based Organisations in Development Discourses and Practice Edited by Andreas Heuser and Jens K¨ohrsen For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Studies-in-Religion-and-Politics/book-series/RSRP

War and Religion in the Secular Age Faith and Interstate Armed Conflict Onset

Davis Brown

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Davis Brown The right of Davis Brown to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Brown, Davis L., 1967– author. Title: War and religion in the secular age : faith and interstate armed conflict onset / Davis Brown. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York : Routledge, 2020. j Series: Routledge studies in religion and politics j Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019029822 (print) j LCCN 2019029823 (ebook) j ISBN 9781138337480 (hardback) j ISBN 9780429442339 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: War—Religious aspects. j War—Moral and ethical aspects. j Religion and politics. j Religion and international relations. Classification: LCC BL65.W2 B76 2020 (print) j LCC BL65.W2 (ebook) j DDC 201/.7273—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029822 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029823 ISBN: 978-1-138-33748-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-44233-9 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by TNQ Technologies

This book is dedicated to two gentlemen who steadfastly believed in me when no one else would: John Owen and Patrick James.

Contents

Figures Tables Acknowledgements Abbreviations

viii ix xi xiii

1

Introduction

1

2

How religious war ethics translate to state action

17

3

Research design, independent variable, and preliminary results

42

4

The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

78

5

The permissive war ethic in Islam

114

6

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

152

7

Conclusion

182

References Appendix A: Preferred GRPs of states Appendix B: Organization of religious scripture Index

185 211 219 229

Figures

2.1 2.2

Religion as a preference filter in Neoclassical Realism. Religion as a preference generator in Neoclassical Realism.

22 23

2.3

Typology of war ethics.

36

2.4 3.1

Median and modal religious war ethics. Hierarchy of religions.

39 49

3.2 4.1

GRP variables, composites, and supercomposite. RELogit regression on Christian Preferred GRP score.

51 97

4.2

RELogit regression on Catholic Preferred GRP score.

99

4.3 4.4

RELogit regression on Extended Protestant Preferred GRP score. RELogit regression on Orthodox Preferred GRP score.

104 109

5.1 5.2

RELogit regression on Muslim Preferred GRP score. RELogit regression on Sunni Preferred GRP score.

142 145

5.3

RELogit regression on Shia Preferred GRP score.

148

6.1 6.2

RELogit regression on Buddhist Preferred GRP score. RELogit regression on Theravada Preferred GRP score.

170 172

6.3 6.4

RELogit regression on Mahayana Preferred GRP score. RELogit regression on Buddhist Complex Preferred GRP score.

177 179

Tables

3.1 3.2

State-years in which specified religion is dominant (1946–2010). RELogit regression on religionist majority population (binary), clustered by directed dyad.

3.3

RELogit regression on religionist percentage of population, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on religionist majority percentage of population, clustered by directed dyad.

3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8

RELogit regression on adjusted Preferred Religion GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on religionist preference (binary), clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on religionist GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on religionist Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

57 60 62 64 67 68 70 74

4.1 4.2

RELogit regression on Christian Preferred GRP score. RELogit regression on Catholic Preferred GRP score.

4.3 4.4

RELogit regression on Extended Protestant Preferred GRP score. RELogit regression on Orthodox Preferred GRP score.

103 108

5.1

RELogit regression on Muslim Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

140

5.2

RELogit regression on Muslim Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad (excluding dyads containing Israel).

143

5.3 5.4 6.1

RELogit regression on Sunni Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on Shia Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on Buddhist Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

96 98

144 147 169

x 6.2 6.3 6.4

Tables RELogit regression on Thervada Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on Mahayana Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. RELogit regression on Buddhist Complex Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

171 176 178

A.1 State-years with Christian Preferred GRPs. A.2 State-years with Muslim Preferred GRPs.

211 215

A.3 State-years with Buddhist Preferred GRPs. A.4 State-years with Preferred GRPs of other religions.

217 218

B.1 The Bible, in Western Christianity.

219

B.2 The Bible, in Orthodox Christianity. B.3 The Quran (al-Qur’ān).

221 223

B.4 The Pali Canon. B.5 The Taishō Tripitaka.

227 228

Acknowledgements

Some doctoral students spend a year or longer searching for a dissertation topic. I was lucky enough to stumble on one in my first semester of graduate school. While doing a paper on a new test of the democratic peace I also uncovered a relationship between Christianity and first use of force by states. (I had recently finished the manuscript of my first book, on Christian just war theory, so that particular war ethic was still on my brain.) How fortuitous it was, then, that I had landed at the University of Virginia and under the tutelage of John Owen. Few other political scientists would have found such a topic acceptable, but he was genuinely excited about it. So my first acknowledgment goes to John, who went on to chair the committee for the dissertation that has led to this book. I also thank my other committee members for their guidance and insights: Todd Sechser, John Norton Moore of the Law School, and Charles Mathewes of the Religious Studies department. In addition to them, I would like to thank the following additional UVA faculty (in politics, religious studies, and law) for their advice and assistance in the earlier foundational works that have culminated in this volume: Abdul-Aziz Sachedina, James Childress, Dale Copeland, Paul Freedman, John Setear, Michael Joseph Smith (who also was one of my M.A. Thesis advisors), and Robert Turner. I also extend my appreciation to Dan Philpott, whose early assistance while in residence at the Institute of Advanced Studies in Culture (UVA) got my literature grounding on track. Next, I would like to thank the following faculty at other universities for their feedback and valuable ideas, many of which propelled me into new, highly productive directions: Victor Asal, Chris Bader, Matthias Basedau, Pierre Baudry, Charles Brower, Ralph Carter, Darrell Cole, Seung-Whan Choi, Alden Craddock, Walter Dorn, Brent Durbin, Dennis Foster, Anthony Gill, Tobin Grant, Vsevolod “Seva” Gunitskiy, James Harf, Daniel Heimbach, James Hentz, James Turner Johnson, Jason Klocek, Manus Midlarsky, Karen Mingst, Valerie Morkevicius (with whom I often disagree but whose insight I deeply appreciate!), Emilia Justyna Powell, Dave Sacko, Howard Sanborn, Elina Schleutker, Amanda tho Seeth, Heba el-Shazli, Kendall Stiles, Rodney Stark, G¨on¨ul Tol, Marko Vekovi´c, Erin Wilson, and Moncef el-Younssi. Special thanks to David Buckley and Anita Weiss for their valuable feedback on my book proposal. Apologies to anyone I may have missed. There are four others whom I will save for the end.

xii

Acknowledgements

The Religious Characteristics of States dataset project has been a core component of my research and it supplies the independent variables used in this book. I would like to thank my co-Principal Investigator, Patrick James, for his work on that project. I thank Jocelyn Cesari and especially Jonathan Fox for their insights and feedback regarding the GRP dataset. I also thank the following student research assistants—high school, undergrad, and grad students—for their labor during the monumental task of data collection and coding: Therese Anders, Daniel Badock, George Baker, Rebekah Bates, Matt Breda, Gemma Brown (yes, she who carries half my genes), Jinny Choi, Marie Cormier, Dave Ebner, Eboni “Nola” Haynes, Thomas Herring, Tapuwa “Karlo” Jingura, Andrea Leiras, Coy Ritter, Jr., Diana “Alex” Rodriguez, and Jennifer Rogl`a. I thank the following colleagues for their assistance and suggestions in refining the empirical methods used in this book: Todd Sechser (who also served on my dissertation committee), Katherine Barbieri, Sam Bell, Carla Martinez Machain, and Peter Rudloff. I thank the following individuals for their roles in arranging the material support that enabled the completion of the data and ultimately this volume: Roger Finke (Association of Religion Data Archives), James Hentz (Virginia Military Institute), Jeffrey Jenkins and Herman “Mark” Schwartz (University of Virginia), Byron Johnson (Baylor Institute for Study of Religion), Dave Sacko (U.S. Air Force Academy), and a very special thanks to John Riley (U.S. Air Force Academy). This project or the data behind it have received funding from the following sources, which I thank for their support: Albert Gallatin dissertation award, University of Virginia; Jack Shand research award, Society for the Scientific Study of Religion; and research stipends from the Association of Religion Data Archives (the ARDA). And finally, my highest appreciation and commendations go out to four individuals whose steadfast support sustained me during some professionally dark times: Ron Hassner, and “The Three”: Jonathan Fox, Nukhet Sandal, and he who has become my closest mentor and champion, Patrick James.

Abbreviations

A AN BFSP BGVVNS CTS D DN DR FHIG GAOR J Ja JB KJV LB LNTS M Mil MN MPT NAB NIV NLT NRSV PTS Q RSV RSV-CE S SN Sn T UNTS

Anguttara Nikaya of the Pali Canon, original PTS translation Anguttara Nikaya (for sutta references) British Foreign and State Papers Bodhisattva-gocaropaya-visaya-vikurvaṇa-nirdesa-sutra Consolidated Treaty Series Digha Nikaya of the Pali Canon, original PTS translation Digha Nikaya (for sutta references) Bible, Douay-Rheims Version Fontes Historiae Iuris Gentium U.N. General Assembly Official Records Jataka of the Pali Canon (for sutta references) Jataka, original PTS translation Jerusalem Bible Bible, King James Version Living Bible League of Nations Treaty Series Majjhima Nikaya of the Pali Canon, original PTS translation Milindapañha of the Pali Canon, original PTS translation Majjhima Nikaya (for sutta references) Major Peace Treaties of Modern History New American Bible Bible, New International Version Bible, New Living Translation Bible, New Revised Standard Version Pali Text Society Quran Bible, Revised Standard Version Bible, Revised Standard Version-Catholic Edition Samyutta Nikaya of the Pali Canon, original PTS translation Samyutta Nikaya (for sutta references) Suttanipata of the Pali Canon, original PTS translation Taishō Tripitaka United Nations Treaty Series

1

Introduction

Does religion influence the onset of armed conflict between states? Traditionally among political scientists the answer was no—not from making, testing, and refuting any hypotheses, but because religion had lain outside the realist paradigm and therefore was ignored. Now, with religion better integrated into that paradigm (Sandal and Fox, 2013), the answer is a qualified yes: qualified because either it is supported only theoretically (thus far), or case-study and empirical treatments presume religion to influence only those conflicts with religious dimensions. That (qualified) yes raises another question: Do all religions wield equal influence? Traditional international relations (IR) scholarship, having long eschewed religion, offers no answer at all. Most studies on religion and violence by political scientists focus exclusively on civil wars and terrorism,1 not interstate armed conflict. Treatments by religious studies scholars are mostly single religion-specific, thus they can offer no confident answer either. In this volume, I seek to bridge the gap between the political science and religious studies fields, by offering the first hypotheses and large-N empirical tests on religion’s—and religions’—influence in precipitating armed conflicts between states. In doing so, I argue yes to the first question and no to the second. Through mixed methods, I show that religion does influence propensities of states to “initiate armed conflicts” against other states. However, I move beyond treatments that mischaracterize all religions as the same. I challenge the misconception that all religions are equally violence prone. This stereotype is promulgated most famously in popular pro-atheist literature (e.g. Harris, 2005; Dawkins, 2008), but it also permeates the literature examining the role of religion—treated broadly, cf. individual religions—in precipitating political violence. Perhaps this biased assumption was never intentional, but I would like to expose it now. In this volume, I show that different religions influence states’ conflict propensities in different ways and at different rates. In doing so, I depart from the (not unreasonable) arguments that religion’s resurgence and religious violence are manifestations of discontent from those for whom the promised benefits of modernity never materialized (e.g. Toft, 2013). I also depart from literature that (also not unreasonably) observes religion through the lens of identity politics and argues that out-group suppression or identitybased debasement generates popular grievances which eventually erupt into

2

Introduction

violence (e.g. Toft, 2007; Fox, 2002; see also Philpott, 2013). Instead, I borrow a premise shared by constructivism and the English School: that norms influence preferences and decisions of political actors (alongside rational material considerations). Instead of linking those preferences and decisions to material suppression or identity differences, I link them directly to religiously based political norms (sometimes labeled “political theology”). A large portion of my analysis consists of qualitative examination of those religious norms influencing the outcome of interest (initiation of interstate armed conflict). I perform such examinations on three major world religions: Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism. Within those religions, I offer separate treatments of Catholic, Protestant, Orthodox, Sunni, Shiite, Theravada, and Mahayana war ethics. These religions and branches are selected because they are predominant in the most states.2 Through analysis of scripture, teachings of the priesthood (classical and contemporary), and historical narrative, I classify religions’ baseline war ethics on a scale ranging from permissiveness to restrictiveness. This is the first half of a mixed-methods approach, adopted to satisfy Hassner’s (2011) call for studies of religion that combine breadth and depth into a “thick religion” approach. My approach is both reflectivist in describing religious beliefs and practices and positivist in measuring religion’s real-world effects. I supplement the qualitative (reflectivist) analysis just described with large-N quantitative (positivist) measurements. Using logit regressions, I show that states dominated by religions with permissive war ethics are more likely to use force than states dominated by religions with non-permissive war ethics. I also show the reverse: states dominated by religions with restrictive war ethics are less likely to use force than states dominated by religions with non-restrictive war ethics. Anchoring the empirics is new data compiled by the Religious Characteristics of States (RCS) data project. RCS has operationalized religion in two ways pertinent to this study. One is religious demographics, which measures states’ popular religious identities and is also a useful measurement of culture. The other is a composite index, Government Religious Preference (GRP), that measures states’ governing regimes’ institutional favoritism or disfavor toward specific religious denominations. GRP is the most direct measurement possible of individual religions’ influence on states’ policies and preferences. Using RCS data, I test relationships of the three religions mentioned above to states’ propensities to initiate interstate armed conflicts. I find Islam (especially Sunni Islam) weakly positively correlated with that outcome. I find Christianity strongly negatively correlated, Catholicism also strongly negatively correlated, Protestantism weakly negatively correlated, but Orthodoxy not correlated. I find Buddhism and its branches not correlated. These results challenge several stereotypes and conventions. Juergensmeyer and his co-editors (2013: 2) postulate that most religionists regard their own faiths as peaceful. My conclusions will disappoint some proponents of that belief. Contenders that all religions are the same, or equally prone to violence, will find no comfort here. Neither will uncritical proponents of the revisionist,

Introduction

3

ill-considered narrative that Christianity is fundamentally aggressive (e.g. Steffen, 2017). Romanticist and chauvinist accounts of Buddhism as ultra-pacifist (e.g. Rahula, 1997) will find little support here,3 but neither will stereotypers of East Asian religion generally as aggressive. The results for Islam are somewhat nuanced. Popular stereotypes of Islam tar it as inherently aggressive but others counter that Islam is misunderstood and actually inherently peaceful—Lawrence (2017), for example, argues that Islamic violence is but a defensive reaction to a long history of aggressions against it. Neither argument enjoys complete support here. Why should we care about these findings? I will show that although religion is not the strongest influencer of interstate armed conflict, its effects are not out of place with those of power, regime type, wealth, proximity, and time. In empirical tests of relationships to conflict outcomes, religion heretofore has been denied its rightful place at the table (or, I should say, in the tables). Including religion in regressions on conflict raises their explanatory power. This knowledge benefits not only the ivory tower but also practitioners of both statecraft and religion. Armed with knowledge of some religions’ greater conflict propensities than others’, governments and statespersons can better incorporate that factor into their respective security calculi. Endowed with greater self-awareness, religionists and their institutions are better equipped to promote meaningful dialogue and engagement, both intra- and inter-denominationally, leading to the more durable peace that we in the academic community presume to be always desirable. Before proceeding further, I must address a preliminary technical matter: the terms “war,” “armed conflict,” “use of/resort to force,” and similar expressions all denote the same phenomenon: corporate arms inflicting kinetic violence against a political adversary. Going forward, all these terms are used interchangeably. Using one term instead of another denotes and connotes nothing more than stylistic variation.

The puzzle In the last 20 years, an alternative to IR rational-choice theories has advanced the proposition that ideas, norms, and rules matter in statecraft. The last 15 years also have seen significant growth in the literature on religion and politics (Hassner, 2013). Greater awareness of religion’s position spotlights a puzzle. It has been maintained in realist circles that religion is a non-factor. Neither Classical Realism nor Neorealism grants any place for law, morals, or ideas, let alone religious beliefs (Carr, 1964; Morgenthau, 2006; Waltz, 1979; Mearsheimer, 2001).4 Even the “Christian Realism” of Niebuhr (1940, 1959, 2001: 170–2) urges setting aside religious mores in statecraft. The Neoliberal Institutionalist literature also largely has ignored the power of norms, instead focusing on long-term material benefits of cooperation (Krasner, 1983; Keohane, 1984, 1989). In these rational-choice sectors, religion is at best regarded as an instrument for political manipulation and at worst dismissed as entirely irrelevant. Even constructivists largely have overlooked religion as a source of ideas, turning their attention instead to the roles of psychology, anthropology, philosophy,

4

Introduction

and materialism in forming states’ interests (Wendt, 1999: chap. 3). When not oblivious to religion altogether, these three paradigms collectively hold that religion has no influence on political outcomes, especially armed conflict onset. But if that were true, then how does one explain Iran’s sudden pro-Islamic militarism after the Revolution? How does one explain U.S. President George H.W. Bush’s intense soul-searching in his decision to undertake the Persian Gulf War (documented in Goldstein, 1990; Cornell, 1991; Bush and Scowcroft, 1998: 381–412 passim)? Neither outcome is explained solely by materialist concerns, psychology, or even philosophy. The IR field not only must take more seriously effects of ideology on national preferences and international outcomes (e.g. Haas, 2007, 2012), but also must recognize religion as an ideology that generates preferences and outcomes alongside its secular counterparts. As ideologies, religions are just as worthy of examination, and I submit they are in even greater need of it. This volume examines religion’s role in generating and inhibiting armed conflict between states. My essential claim is this: on average, over time and space, religious ideas influence states’ decisions to use military force against other states. This is so even for interstate conflicts lacking overtly religious objectives. I further show that different religions wield different influences: some negative, others positive, and still others with no effect. However, unlike treatments of religion as a preference-generating identity or economic firm with rational, material interests, I argue that religion influences statecraft by instilling norms—and because different religions instill different norms, they influence statecraft differently.

Impact This work speaks to whether international conflict onset is influenced by religion and, more broadly, by ideas and norms. Bellin (2008) calls for the field to get on with mid-level theorizing about religion’s role in IR, and this volume answers that call. The results impact scholarship in both IR and international law. For IR, this work offers an approach to addressing what continues to vex constructivists: how to generate and test a falsifiable hypothesis in which the independent variable is an idea. The research design used here is adaptable to measuring other, nonreligious ideologies. For international law, this study offers insight into when states comply with and deviate from contemporary jus ad bellum. In today’s epoch of international law (1945–present),5 the propensity to initiate armed conflicts is virtually the same as that to violate present-day jus ad bellum as it is interpreted in its restrictivist construction (Brownlie, 1963; Schachter, 1984; Chesterman, 2001). In Franckian (1990) terms, religion influences all aspects of a rule’s legitimacy and pull toward compliance, including rules regulating resort to force. Religion also influences the level of animosity between states, directly affecting states’ inclinations to comply with rules against their interests, including rules prohibiting force (see Wendt, 1999: chap. 6).

Introduction

5

Finally, this study has implications for foreign policy-making, a major component of which is predicting and coping with other states’ preferences. A 2010 study called for greater attention to religion’s role in U.S. foreign policymaking, noting that the “God gap” impedes governments’ abilities to understand and influence other actors (Waters, 2010)—though Bettiza (2019) documents an unprecedented level at which religion now has become a subject and object of U.S. foreign policy today. With a better understanding of how certain state-level characteristics influence preferences for war or peace, states can improve their predictions of other states’ preferences and adjust their own policies accordingly.

Responding to objections Because my findings and arguments are not “politically correct,” they are anticipated to draw several objections, to which I now respond. The first anticipated objection is that without case studies, I can prove only correlation, not causation. This objection is exaggerated. In one sense, I actually do offer case studies—albeit on the detailed content of individual religions’ ad bellum norms, rather than process-tracing religion’s influence on a specific decision made at a specific time and place. However, consider that for examples of a militant religious war ethic’s influence on foreign policy, one need hardly look further than the behaviors of post-Revolution Iran (1979–present) or Japan from the Meiji Restoration through World War II (1868–1945). Presenting detailed studies of war ethics of three religions (and multiple branches) simultaneously is already an ambitious goal; a batch of process-tracing case studies seems best suited for another book. However, I further suggest that case studies may not even be appropriate or even feasible given my core claim: that on average, over time and space, even in conflicts not involving overtly religious objectives, religious war ethics still influence states’ preferences. If religion’s effect is observable only in large-N regressions, then case studies would yield few insights. Moreover, requiring case studies to illustrate a restrictive war ethic’s constraining effect is tantamount to inappropriately requiring one to prove a negative. The next objection: how can I claim that the Christian war ethic is restrictive in light of the Crusades and Counter-Reformation? As explained further in Chapter 4, a holy war ethic did emerge in Christian thought alongside the more restrictive just war ethic (both of them as practical responses to the impracticality of statelevel pacifism). However, the Christian holy war ethic has since fallen into desuetude and exerts virtually no influence on cultures, populations, or governments today. Furthermore, in fairness to Christianity, it should be noted that the Crusades were Christendom’s response to a long-standing pattern of territorial encroachment by another evangelizing religion (Islam). Notwithstanding that point, I concede that Christianity likely was more militant 1000 years ago than today—though the same is likely true of other religions including Islam. However, religion’s influence of statecraft 1000 years ago is not testable empirically due to lack of regressible data on any variables.

6

Introduction

This is a good place, however, to acknowledge a very significant caveat to this study: it only covers from 1946 through 2010. I explain why in Chapter 3 and also point out that many other published empirical studies of armed conflict onset are similarly limited, often even more so. This means I can make no definitive claims of religions’ effects in the 19th century. In fact, it seems likely that religion had less effect then than today, for the baseline ad bellum standard of war’s legitimacy was much broader in the 19th century than today. But empirical measurements are impractical due to missing data of two types: (1) key control variables and (2) data (on all dependent and explanatory variables) for the many states or quasi-state entities that at the time were outside the Westphalian state system, e.g. Burma, the Zulu Kingdom, and Afghanistan. In the 19th century, the Westphalian state system (roughly corresponding to the Correlates of War state system) has too few non-Christian states to meaningfully measure differences between Christianity and non-Christianity. Further back than 1816, the field lacks significant data even on states’ basic characteristics. Until such data are expanded much further back in time, the validity of empirical tests of religions’ effects in the 19th century is questionable. Another objection is: How can I claim that the Christian war ethic is restrictive given the high conflict propensities of the United States and other Christian great powers? My response is twofold. First, I make no claim that religion is the only driver of interstate armed conflict or even the primary one, only that religion is one of several significant conflict drivers, each having the potential to outweigh the others given the complexities of human behavior. Second, as mentioned before, I claim that religion’s observable effects are long term, not short term. In the long term, Christianity is associated with lesser armed conflict propensity not because of the conflict propensity of the United States and its major Christian allies, but despite it. The next two potential objections pertain to my two operationalizations of religion. One operationalization is via demographics, i.e. percentages of states’ populations of the tested religion. What does that measure, and what does it prove? Strictly speaking, it measures only religious identities of states’ general populations, not religiosity. But religious identity is a foundation of cultural identity and measuring that is to measure the culture’s package of norms, values, worldviews, and especially standards of rectitude. The objector would repost that religious identity can be deceiving; for example, Denmark and Saudi Arabia both have official religions to which the vast majority adhere, but popular religiosity in Saudi Arabia is far more fervent than in Denmark. I concede the point that measuring religious identity is different from measuring religiosity. However, no sufficient data are yet available to systematically measure the latter over the many decades that this study requires. I will not be exaggerating the relatively limited inferences from demographics’ empirical relationships to states’ conflict propensities. Because of the limitations just described, the more authoritative results presented in this volume operationalize religion through Government Religious Preference (GRP). GRP captures more directly a phenomenon that demographics

Introduction

7

cannot: the degree to which the state’s actual governing apparati favor some religions over others—and the favored religion(s) may not be the same as the majority religion of the population. For example, the Idi Amin regime in Uganda manifested distinct favor toward Islam, even though Muslims constituted less than 10% of the population. The government, not general population, is the more proximate driver of a state’s institutional policy and preferences (in both law and practice), thus GRP offers greater insight into religion’s influence on those things. The precise causation, I argue, is religion’s influence on governments’ preferences and decisions, and the different influences by different religions on the same. Coding that phenomenon directly is simply not possible or reasonable—especially when religion’s influence likely is subconscious—because thoughts are not observable, only words and actions. This may lead to the objection that the precise causation theorized to influence use of force is too far removed from the phenomenon that GRP actually captures. What GRP captures directly is not variance in religions’ influence on the state, but variance in the state’s attitudes toward different religions. However, this is not a problem. Variance in religions’ influences on the state are easily inferred from variances in the state’s treatment of those religions. We can postulate that a state is more susceptible to influence by a religion that it favors than by a religion that it does not favor. For example, if a state’s official religion is Catholicism, it requires Catholic instruction in public schools, endows Catholic institutions, exempts Catholic institutions from certain regulatory burdens, and allows free and public Catholic worship, but does none of these things for Islam, can we not infer that Catholic ideas and norms influence the state’s public officials more than Islamic ideas and norms? To suggest otherwise is to defy common sense and knowledge of the ways of the world. Furthermore, can we not infer that such a regime is more amenable to Catholic influence than the government of a state with a mostly Catholic population, yet has no official religion, forbids religious instruction in public education, supports and exempts all religious institutions equitably, and allows free and public exercise for all religions? Again, it seems almost axiomatic that a state’s government that is strongly partisan toward Catholicism is more susceptible to Catholic influence than a government that is only weakly partisan. Another objection: In classifying religious war ethics as fundamentally permissive or restrictive, am I not essentializing religion, thus perpetuating inappropriate stereotypes? Lynch (2014: 279) cautions against demarcating religion so strictly that it is treated “as a rigid, unbending, and unevolving primordial identity or as a fixed ensemble of doctrinal rules that are imposed on adherents externally.” When it comes to stereotyping, I am not essentializing religion. I do not claim that, e.g. all Christians are pacifist and all Muslims are militant. I fully acknowledge that each major world religion has adherents along a wide range from extreme militancy to extreme pacifism—and have done so elsewhere (Brown, 2017a). However, as I also have hypothesized before and do again in this book, we also must expect the majority of religionists to congregate around one median point (or maybe two modal points) along that scale. A wholesale rejection

8

Introduction

of “cultural determinism” (Lynch, 2014: 279) is no more appropriate to understanding the effects of religion than over-stereotyping religion. In fact, I seek to dispel several stereotypes, the most offensive of which is perpetuated by the most vociferous critics of religion: that all religion is fundamentally violent and all religions are equally violent. But if we return to the original, non-loaded meaning of “essentialize” as simply expressing the essence of something, then doing that is perfectly appropriate. Although religious doctrine does not determine action per se (Lynch, 2014: 281), it does influence religious adherents’ preferences, as shown in later chapters. Sometimes other, non-religious factors overcome the influence of religious doctrine, but sometimes the latter overcomes the former. In groundbreaking theory that situates religion within normative paradigms like constructivism and the English School, Wilson (2012) advocates moving beyond treating religion as irrational or just another materialist institution or interest group. Rather, Wilson argues, a broader understanding of religion embraces its ideational aspects, its influence on the communal level (cf. individual), and its rationality. This volume treats religion and individual religions exactly how Wilson suggests. One final, related objection: In arguing that some religions have greater conflict propensities than others, am I not undermining progress toward global peace by advancing a self-fulfilling prophecy of conflict? That, I submit, is a self-serving and rather inartful criticism. As scientists, we must describe the world as it is, not as we wish it. To deliberately avoid inquiring into the unpleasant, or because results challenge some ideologically favored narrative, is to over-emphasize “political” at the expense of “science.” Objections such as these last two reflect the undue hastiness with which the field has rejected religions’ normative agendas as causal factors in favor of embracing their more material agendas. As political actors, religionists and their institutions certainly are not immune to materialistic temptations, and those interests do warrant scrutiny as Henne (2016: 13) rightly implies. I share concerns of Henne and others who highlight dangers of over-simplifying any ideology, including religion. But to dismiss totally and a priori the possibility that individual religions’ essential, primordial differences influence political actors’ agendas, preferences, and decisions is to overlook an independent variable with explanatory power rivaling that of other major ones (power, regime type, proximity, etc.). As a weighted roulette wheel is biased toward a certain number, so does strong religious influence bias the influenced government toward a certain preference, thus a certain outcome. In this study, I tease out the directions of those biases and measure their strengths or weaknesses.

Religion and political conflict: how we got here and what we know The “resurgence” of religion in international relations Until recently, religion’s role in international politics and law was largely rejected in Western political science (see Haynes, 2005: 399). Space permits no detailed

Introduction

9

survey of religion’s “fall and rise” (Shah and Philpott, 2011); it suffices that its banishment began with the Enlightenment’s newfound extolment of rational, empirical observation, later exacerbated by anti-religion hostility of Marxism, culminating in predictions of religion’s eventual demise (e.g. Berger, 1968). Since the 1960s, the political science academy has had comparatively little interest in challenging these notions, for it has consisted of disproportionately few religionists among a vast community of irreligious or even anti-religious scholars (Wald and Wilcox, 2006). Scholarship on religion in politics could hardly thrive in such a hostile academic environment. Consequently, religion’s role in IR suffered severe neglect. Several historical and academic developments converged to change this. Historical events include the Iranian Revolution (ushering the rise of political Islam),6 the rise of the religious right in the United States and Israel, and newfound political outspokenness of the Catholic papacy (Kepel, 1994). Then a new wave of ethnic violence followed the end of the Cold War—and one of the most influential aspects of ethnic identity, thus also ethnic behavior, is religion (Fox, 2001a: 518). The third event was 9/11; although Juergensmeyer (1993) had been highlighting the dangers of religious extremism for nearly a decade, it took the worst terrorist attack in modern history to galvanize governmental (and popular) attention to it. These events in tandem constituted evidence of a new global desecularization (see Berger, 1999, who recanted his original prediction!).7 In academia, 9/11 was especially instrumental in exposing religion’s prior neglect (see Hassner, 2016: 3). However, the path toward renewed attention to religion was already paved by the appearance of three works. One was Kepel’s Revanche de Dieu (Revenge of God) (1994), highlighting and juxtaposing the historical developments of the late 1970s and early 1980s just recounted. Another was Huntington’s (1993, 1996) prediction of conflict between civilizations— which he demarcated mostly by religion. The third was Wendt’s (1992, 1999) paradigm-shifting work on constructivism in IR, which finally mainstreamed the idea that norms could guide state behavior (and which gained widespread traction that the English School never did). With these intellectual developments, along with the establishment of the Religion section of the International Studies Association in 2013 (spearheaded by Hassner), robust scholarship on religion in politics is now possible, practical, and even socially and (minimally) professionally acceptable.

Classifying literature on religion and conflict in IR Does religion precipitate conflict? Within the body of the still small but burgeoning literature on religion and IR, several themes are not particularly relevant or useful and are set aside. One is religion’s role in conflict resolution (Johnston and Sampson, 1994; Nafziger, 1999; Fox, 1999; Appleby, 2000; Hasenclever and Rittberger, 2000). Appleby (2000) contends that all religions have equal potential for charity, tolerance, and

10

Introduction

non-violence and that the more knowledgeable believers are of their own faiths, the more they will become peace-makers. This hypothesis is not testable empirically, for even less historical data exist on religious literacy than on religious fervor.8 Another bracketed theme treats religion as an instrument of political manipulation: control of religion by the state, along with control of public opinion through religious institutions.9 Fox (2008) illustrates this process in his exposition of Government Involvement in Religion (GIR; see also Fox, 2015, 2016). In this volume, however, the causation of interest is religion’s influence on the state, not the reverse. We further set aside the problem of defining religion. Although Weber famously avoided doing so, many other authors have attempted it. The challenges to doing so are (1) to avoid minimizing or omitting religion’s transcendental element (e.g. Otis, 2004), and (2) to completely disentangle religious from secular, e.g. the “domestic religion” of popular culture (e.g. Gardella, 1998). Even Riesebrodt’s (2010) potentially paradigm-shifting focus on religious rituals, adopted by some, risks being interpreted to absurd extremes. Such efforts seek out commonalities among all of those ideologies and beliefs warranting the label “religion.” However, because this volume focuses on religious differences, not commonalities, this particular venture is an unnecessary distraction. I will not get mired, for example, in questions like whether Confucianism and other East Asian faiths constitute “religions” strictly speaking. I therefore follow Fox and Sandler’s (2004: 2) approach of pragmatic avoidance: deliberately refraining from defining religion and instead focusing on several specific ones. Indeed, this book is less about religion than about religions. The most relevant literature to this study examines religion as a conflict driver. The most paradigmatic (and maligned) expression of this premise is Huntington’s (1993, 1996) “clash of civilizations” thesis, which predicts that in the post–Cold War phase of world politics, the fundamental source of conflict … will not be primarily ideological or primarily economic. The great divisions among humankind and the dominating source of conflict will be cultural…. [T]he principal conflicts of global politics will occur between nations and groups of different civilizations. (1993: 24) Huntington demarcates civilizations by “common language, history, religion, customs, institutions and by the subjective self-identification of people” (1993: 24), settling on nine major world civilizations divided mostly along religious lines (1993: 25; 1996: 45–7). He asserts that “[c]ultural commonalities and differences shape the interests, antagonisms, and associations of states” (1996: 29; see also Hanson, 2006: 6), arguing essentially that states of like civilizations are inherently friendly and peaceful toward each other and states of unlike civilizations are inherently hostile. That specific claim is not tested here (indeed, many scholars have rushed to judgment against it), but it is possible that some cultures’ war

Introduction

11

ethics are simply more permissive, making some states more hostile generally. Essentially, the effect of civilizations may be monadic, not dyadic. The empirical results of testing religions—and far more rigorously than Huntington’s breezy assertions—suggest that a monadic theory of the clash of civilizations may be supportable. What Huntington claims is true for culture may be also true for religion. The literature on religion as a conflict driver tends to be especially harsh on monotheistic religions. Schwartz (1997) expounds on the legacy of violence in the Bible, though she defines violence too broadly and is more deconstructive than constructive. Delaney (2010) also depicts Abrahamic religions as fundamentally violent.10 Juergensmeyer (2000) casts religion and violence as oddly attracted to each other, though his focus is limited to religiously based terrorism and its supporters. Appleby (2000) more even-handedly attributes religious militancy to clerical embeddedness in civil society, religious (il)literacy, and levels of injustice, discrimination, etc. But even Appleby concludes that Judaism, Islam, and Christianity are more congenial to violent revolutionary movements, whereas Buddhism, Confucianism, and Hinduism (being less dualistic and more worldaffirming) are less hospitable to militancy. A volume edited by the Owen brothers (2010) explores a related question: whether religious conflicts are too intractable for the Enlightenment model of liberalism to resolve. Some literature focuses on religion more as a conflict intensifier. Otis (2004) makes this argument, and Pearce (2005: 55) confirms it quantitatively, finding that conflicts involving religion are more intense than others.11 Henne (2012), focusing on ideological distance, finds that interstate disputes are more likely to escalate to armed conflicts when one state has extensive religion-state connections and the other does not.12 On the qualitative side, Hassner (2016) explores religion as a “force multiplier” that enhances actors’ resolve and battlefield effectiveness (though religion as a “force divider” does the opposite). Why does religion precipitate conflict? When religion does influence conflict outcomes, what is its agenda? There are two possible answers: (1) advance rational (material) interests and (2) promote ideas. Most authors appear to treat these objectives as competing,13 but others argue that they complement each other (Philpott, 2000; Fox and Sandler, 2004: chap. 1; Hanson, 2006: 50). In the first model, religious institutions act like economic firms—overtly political actors pursuing rational material interests like any other. Bellin (2008: 319) dubs this line of inquiry the “Religious Economy School.” Representative works examine cases in which religious institutions have challenged state authorities (Kalyvas, 1996; Gill, 1998; Warner, 2000) or supplanted the state by providing essential public services (Norris and Inglehart, 2011). These are potential breeding grounds for (intrastate) armed conflict but do not always result in it. But this thread also includes literature linking religious freedom to stability and religious suppression to conflict (Seiple and Hoover, 2004; Grim and Finke,

12

Introduction

2011); and religious institutions and organizations fighting against existential threats (e.g. Fox, 1999, 2001a; Toft, 2002/3, 2007). In the second model, religious institutions promote ideas and the collision of competing ideas produces conflict. Otis identifies their logical nexus particularly saliently: [E]ach and every religion is…an ideology that provides comprehensive ideals and principles that govern both life and death. Religions not only answer the question, “How should I live?” but also the question, “For what am I willing to kill and die?” (2004: 12) A major function of religion is to explain not only the meaning and value of life, but also conditions under which taking life is justifiable (2004: 19). Henne (2012: 755) distinguishes between conscious and subconscious religious ideational agendas (though Henne himself does not employ those terms). In the “conscious” agenda, religionists seek to impose certain religious standards on society, thus the state. Henne downplays this agenda’s application to interstate disputes, arguing that states generally do not base their foreign policies on religious beliefs. But other literature suggests that states sometimes do. Stark (2001a, b) correlates belief in God with personal morality and attributes religious conflict to religious “particularism” (belief in sole truth of one’s own religion). Such conflict between a few major groups (in this case, generally monotheistic groups) produces a general climate of antagonism and aggression. A related problem is that of irreconcilable claims on “sacred space,” referring to conflicts over religious sites that do not lend themselves well to bargaining solutions (Hassner, 2009). Nafziger (1999) outlines religion’s functions in forming and implementing international law; to the extent that religions propound ideas of exclusivity or superiority, their role in precipitating conflict is easy to ascertain. Thomas (2000a: 18) illustrates how religion can challenge international society by promoting beliefs that are incompatible with that society’s rules, practices, and norms. He argues that Buddhism, Islam, and Christianity, which have universalistic aspirations, pose the greatest challenge to the state’s primacy in international society. Of these three, he argues, Islam has the greatest potential to mount such a challenge; in contrast, Buddhism has not expressed itself politically and the seat of Christianity (the West) has separated church and state (2000a: 15). In the other type of religious ideational agenda, religionists promote interests and outcomes that may not be overtly religious, but as Henne puts it, “resemble religiously grounded ‘common sense’” (2012: 755). This is the “subconscious” agenda (my word, not his). Literature examining religion’s (and religions’) roles in shaping identities fall into this category (e.g. Kub´alkov´a, 2000: 684). But in this model, religion shapes not only identities but also interests and preferences of states and/or cultures. Thomas, following Alasdair MacIntyre, argues that religion, as a social tradition, embodies values and ethical conceptions about goodness, justice, rightness, and obligation (2000b: 826). These traits inform

Introduction

13

political agendas of, for example, the many otherwise disinterested persons, groups, and government officials who advocate specific policies on such diverse matters as abortion rights, same-sex marriage, and using force against other states. Most political science literature, however, does not engage deeply the actual content of religions’ ethical conceptions about goodness, justice, rightness, and obligation. This is also true for treatments of the ethics and principles that are especially germane to this book: ad bellum prescriptions of violence of specific religions. Such expositions typically are housed in the discipline of religious studies. The religious studies war ethics literature is voluminous and space permits no detailed discussion of individual works, which consist mostly of edited volumes (Johnson and Kelsay, 1990; Kelsay and Johnson, 1991; Nardin, 1996; Janis and Evans, 1999; Coffey and Mathewes, 2002; Robinson, 2003; SchmidtLeukel, 2004a; Brekke, 2006; Sorabji and Rodin, 2006; Popovski, Reichberg, and Turner, 2009; Hensel, 2010a; Reichberg, Syse, and Hartwell, 2014; Morkevicius, 2018).14 Because very few expositors of the content of religious war ethics are political scientists,15 this literature largely has escaped the IR field’s close attention. As to how religion promotes ideas about goodness, justice, rightness, and obligation, one branch of literature focuses on political power and influence of religious institutions (often transnational ones). Methods of influence include incentivizing/pressuring state officials, supporting/opposing their preferences, and organizing activist movements (Thomas, 2005: chap. 4; Katzenstein and Byrnes, 2006; Philpott, 2007; Sandal, 2011, 2017; Buckley, 2016: chap. 7).16 The other branch explores the normative power of religiously grounded ideas about humankind’s relationship with God, from which flow further ideas about the legitimacy of governments and military force or lack thereof (Hasenclever and Rittberger, 2000: 642ff; Fox, 2001b: 63–7; Otis, 2004; Thomas, 2005: chap. 3). This literature supplements the standard constructivist argument that social conflicts are embedded in cognitive sources such as ethnicities and ideologies—of which religion is one.17 It also fits well within the broader constructivist literature that examines the same effects of ideas generally. It spans across Waltzian (1959) images, examining effects of religion in shaping identities, interests, and preferences of people, populations, and ultimately states. Examples include effects of religious ideas in shaping the state structure (Philpott, 2001), defining foreign policy (Fox and Sandler, 2004), and constructing the individual ethos (Stark, 2001b). Fox and Sandler (2004) and Thomas (2005) contend that religion wields both political and normative power. A major lacuna in the literature on religion and armed conflict is that very little of it addresses conflict between the primary actors in global politics: states. Instead, nearly all the literature focuses on intra- or extra-state conflict (e.g. works of Toft, Fox, Juergensmeyer). Civil and extra-state wars lie outside my expertise; therefore, I have limited ability and little inclination to catalogue that literature. But doing so would not be especially helpful to understanding religion’s role in armed conflict onset between states. Intra- and extra-state armed conflicts generally consist of an aggrieved, weak non-state actor pitted against a stronger

14

Introduction

state actor, usually on account of the latter suppressing the former (in reality or perception). Interstate armed conflict is different: it involves two juridical equals in a Hobbesian environment in which (nearly) all parties can do serious harm to (nearly) all others. The natures of their respective casus belli are different also: in intra- and extra-state wars, non-state actors react to real or perceived abuse of states’ internal sovereign prerogatives, but interstate war ensues because one sovereign’s armed forces has intruded on the exclusive prerogative of the other (by border crossing, blockade, seizure, or outright attack). While the ethical grounds for legitimate force might overlap these three types of armed conflicts, we actually do not know this to be true until those war ethics are examined through the lens of interstate interaction. Hardly any such literature exists; the closest exceptions are by Hassner (2016) and Morkevicius (2018). However, their focuses are different. Morkevicius (2018) examines several religions’ war ethics and argues that they are essentially realist in disguise. Hassner examines religion’s contribution to state actors’ resolve and battlefield effectiveness. However, to the extent that Hassner examines ad bellum instead of in bello outcomes, he does so for conflicts with overtly religious goals, objectives, or over/undertones. In contrast, my agenda is to show that over time and space, religions affect ad bellum outcomes even for conflicts that are not religious in nature. For all the reasons stated above, I submit that the best starting point for this line of inquiry really is from scratch.

Plan of this book The next chapter theorizes how religions generate political preferences of states, thus outcomes of international interaction, through scripture, priesthood, and historical narrative. The theory draws heavily from Neoclassical Realism, in which state-level characteristics generate preferences alongside systemic incentives, pressures, and constraints. We focus on two actors in the Waltzian (1959) second image: (1) the state’s general population, as a conduit for cultural behavioral norms; and more importantly, (2) religious preferences of states’ governing regimes, manifested institutionally as laws, material support, and endorsement. Chapter 3 details this volume’s empirical research design and reports preliminary results. Special attention is devoted to construction of (1) independent variables quantifying state-religion and (2) the dependent variable “first use of force,” which better captures the outcome of interest than any other variable commonly used in the security studies literature (including armed conflict occurrence). The chapter then reports several first-cut results, including effects of religion as a whole (i.e. non-denomination-specific) and top-level comparisons of Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism. Following that are three chapters, each devoted to one of the three individual religions studied in this volume. In these chapters, we delve deeply into scripture, classical and contemporary literature, and historical narrative (the three media

Introduction

15

mentioned above), and flesh out the prevailing war ethic. We focus exclusively on ad bellum ethics (legitimacy of corporate violence), not in bello ethics (methods and means). Each chapter reports results of empirical tests on the studied religion and selected major branches. In Chapter 4, the war ethic of Christianity is classified as restrictive and results indicate that Christianity is associated with a lesser state propensity to resort to force. It also shows significant variance between Christianity’s major branches, Catholicism, Protestantism, and Orthodoxy. In Chapter 5, Islam’s war ethic is classified as permissive and empirical results show that Islam is associated with greater state propensity. Regressions on Islam’s two major branches, Sunni and Shia, are less conclusive. Chapter 6 argues that the Buddhist war ethic, being bimodal (having two opposing strands that cancel each other out), wields no effect on states’ propensity to use force. We now proceed to theorizing how religion influences initiation of interstate armed conflict.

Notes 1 Within that literature, Fox (2002) and Toft (2007) find that Islam is the most conflictprone. 2 Tibetan Buddhism, Hinduism, the Chinese and Japanese Religious Complexes, and Judaism are not covered because they dominate too few states in comparison. 3 Hazlett (2004: 99) makes a similar complaint. 4 Morgenthau laments that realism has displaced international law as the prevailing ethic of world politics whereas Waltz would assert that international law has never been relevant. Although Neoclassical Realists problematize states’ preferences, they do so according to rational material interests of the constituents with greatest power and influence, not according to norms (Snyder, 1991; Rose, 1998; Lobell, Ripsman, and Taliaferro, 2009; Ripsman, Taliaferro, and Lobell, 2016). 5 For classifications of international law epochs, see Grewe (2000); Ikenberry (2001). 6 In addition to the Iran case, the Zia ul-Haq administration in Pakistan instituted a program of Islamization in the 1980s. I thank Anita Weiss for raising this point. 7 But see Stark (1999) and Agensky (2017), arguing that religion’s so-called “decline” was never real in the first place. 8 Appleby’s (2003: 181) argument is more pertinent to this study: the potential for religiously based peacemaking is undermined by its exclusivity. The more a religion’s truths, rights, and responsibilities are portrayed as inherently superior, the greater its potential to generate conflict. 9 For a survey of such literature, see Hasenclever and Rittberger (2000: 647). 10 In my view, however, Delaney inappropriately equates the Christian ethic of violence with the violence associated with Biblical accounts of Abraham (who was not only pre-Christian but also pre-Judaic). Furthermore, her conclusion is supported almost solely by reference to women’s rights in the United States and Turkey—hardly a sufficient foundation to assess the entire ethics of violence of three separate religions. 11 Pearce concedes, however, that the evidence is “statistically much weaker than expected.” 12 Data available at the time limit his study to the period 1990–2000. 13 The two theories were first juxtaposed by Langan (1998).

16

Introduction

14 The major exceptions are Morkevicius (a sole author and contributor to multiple edited volumes) and myself (this volume). A plethora of single-authored volumes, here uncatalogued, examine war ethics of individual religions. 15 The exceptions are Hensel, Morkevicius, and myself. 16 On transnational activism generally, see Keck and Sikkink (1998); Dai (2008). 17 For a survey of constructivist literature on religion, see Hasenclever and Rittberger (2000: 642–9).

2

How religious war ethics translate to state action

Introduction Now that the “resurgence” of religion in international politics is sufficiently well established, the next great question for the realm of religion and international relations (IR) is: do religious ideas ever override states’ material interests, and if so, when and how (Bellin, 2008: 341–2)? It is only recently that the mainstream of the IR field has begun to take this question seriously (Snyder, 2011; Toft, Philpott, and Shah, 2011). A debate over how to respond to the resurgence of religion in IR1 is brewing within the most recent body of literature on that topic. Kub´alkov´a (2000) calls for the construction of an “international political theology,” and Shah and Philpott (2011: 51) go as far as to call for a “Kuhnian paradigm shift” in the study of IR. In contrast, Sandal and James (2011) and Nexon (2011) argue that no paradigm shift is necessary, and Bellin (2008: 316) expresses with frustration the need for scholars to just “get on with” the theorizing. The latter view seems better considered; the study of religion in IR requires no fundamental revision or reevaluation of the field. Rather than attempt to craft a new grand theory, this chapter will weave a theory for the function of religion in generating ad bellum outcomes, from existing theories.

The place of religion in IR theory Realism The oldest theory of international relations, today styled Classical Realism, posits that war ensues because states (or more precisely, individuals) crave power and fear the intentions of other states, which also crave power (Thucydides, 1998; Machiavelli, 1950a, b; Hobbes, 1985; Morgenthau, 2006). But also in Classical Realism, individuals crave power because of their human depravities; to Plato (1992: bks. viii–ix), for example, the purpose of war is to satisfy human appetites for honor, wealth, or baser desires.2 Religion may participate in defining those appetites, particularly what constitutes “honor” and “power,” but beyond that the monotheistic religions, at least, would seem to play little part in Classical Realist theory—for it is usually supposed that leaders of states must act in accordance

18

From religious ethics to state action

with their human depravities, which would appear to eliminate any significant possibility of choice.3 Neorealism also denies the role of choice, but in a different way. Waltz (1979) outlines three defining features of the modern state system: (1) an ordering principle of anarchy, cf. hierarchy; (2) lack of differentiation of functions or preferences of the actors (states); and (3) differentiation of states’ capabilities. Assuming states to be unitary and rational actors, Waltz then analogizes their behavior to that of economic firms in the marketplace. States being rational, they seek to augment their utility, but above all they seek security from threat. The state system, however, is inherently threatening because some states have greater capabilities than others. The marketplace requires states to resort to self-help in order to protect themselves, for if they do not, they die. States must therefore occasionally force other states to do their bidding, and armed conflict ensues. In Defensive Realism, states merely seek security (they are content to leave others alone provided they are left alone also) and use force only to protect themselves against threats (Walt, 1987). Offensive Realists go further, arguing that the uneven distribution of power in the system incentivizes states to seek not just security but power. States have offensive capability (the power to hurt), and their primary fear is not for their security but for their very survival. They must, therefore, augment their power at any opportunity (Mearsheimer, 2001). States’ preferences are not problematized; they are assumed to be to augment or retain power. Dynamic theories of war, such as Power Transition Theory (Organski and Kugler, 1981) and Dynamic Differentials Theory (Copeland, 2000) attribute this preference to the onset of major war, to the virtual exclusion of all other factors. Neorealism leaves no place for norms, religious or otherwise. Therefore, for religion to influence outcomes in this model of IR, it must take the form of an actor in the international system, wielding its power alongside the rest of them—and in some models, even enjoy great power status (Gilpin, 1981; Mearsheimer, 1990, 2001). Applied to religion, this paradigm had considerably more explanatory power in the distant past than today. In the European system during the Middle Ages, the Roman Catholic Church emerged as a formidable political power, by itself and later alongside the Holy Roman Empire. In the early Muslim system, the Islamic Caliphate wielded political power in a similar way. However, no religious institution enjoys anything close to such material or political capability today. The last Caliphate to wield any genuine political power was overrun by the Mongols in the 13th century and the Caliphate itself was abolished by the newly secularized Turkey in 1924. The Roman Catholic Church, despite having over one billion members and special status as a politically independent entity,4 has but a tiny amount of territory, no permanent population, and no military capability apart from an internal security force. Realist religion theory does have supporters. Sandal and Fox (2013: 85) take up the possibility of religious identity defining a “structure” analogous to the configuration and distribution of power among states. Akbaba and Taydas (2011) successfully apply Security Dilemma logic (Jervis, 1978) to religious differences. Hassner (2009) analogizes some intractable religious conflicts to Fearon’s (1995)

From religious ethics to state action

19

theory that issue indivisibilities generate conflict. Notwithstanding these excellent points, religion’s heavy lifting in these scenarios ultimately concern the formation of states’ preferences not from the external stimuli that are the primary independent variables in Realism, but from stimuli that are internal to states themselves. (More on this in the section on Neoclassical Realism.) The prospect of modern religions influencing states in the conventional Neorealist paradigm today is not promising. Institutionalism Today’s state system is considerably more institutionalized than it was a century ago. As Keohane (1989: 1) puts it, “[M]uch behavior is recognized by participants as reflecting established rules, norms, and conventions, and its meaning is interpreted in light of these understandings.” Institutionalists, especially Neoliberal Institutionalists, challenge several realist assumptions and contend that states are more inclined to cooperate than realists predict. While the causes of the formation of institutions are largely materialist (see Keohane, 1982, 1984 for details), the institutions themselves take a variety of forms that are not necessarily concrete. Keohane (1989: 3) defines an “institution” as a “persistent and connected set[] of rules (formal and informal) that prescribe behavioral roles, constrain activity, and shape expectations.”5 Such entities can take the form of formal organizations (inter-governmental or non-governmental); they may also take the form of “regimes,” which Keohane defines as sets of explicit rules, agreed to by governments, that pertain to particular sets of issues.6 Furthermore, institutions may take the form of “conventions,” which Keohane defines as informal, implicit rules and understandings that shape the expectations of the actors. Religion is capable of performing the functions of all three of these forms of institutions. A brick-and-mortar religious organization could act as a central institution to enforce behaviors and adjudicate or mediate disputes, as the Catholic Church once did in Europe. For example, the Catholic Church oversaw the division of the New World into Spanish and Portuguese spheres in an effort to resolve a dispute between those countries.7 However, as a practical matter, such high-profile statesmanship by religious institutions is considerably less common today. Only one contemporary international political organization is overtly religious (the Organization of the Islamic Conference); the rest are secular. At best, religious organizations today wield varying amounts of soft power (see Nye, 2004), giving them the potential to influence states’ policy preferences in a wide range of issue areas (Sandal and Fox, 2013: 96–8), but not necessarily to the same extent as a state wielding hard power. Religious law could form the basis of a Keohanian “regime,” i.e. a specific set of rules of conduct. The Quran, for example, is the primary source of the richly sophisticated legal system used in and between many Muslim states today and several other classics of Islamic literature have expounded on the prescriptions of Islamic law in the context of international relations, e.g. the Siyar (Shaybani,

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From religious ethics to state action

[c.800] 1966). Religions and their institutions may affect the legitimacy, positively or negatively, of the rules of conduct or even of the member governments of the formal organizations (Sandal and James, 2011: 14; Sandal and Fox, 2013: 98–9). This effect has implications on the degree to which states cooperate with each other and comply with black-letter laws and treaties. But precisely because groups of states have institutionalized along common religious identities (e.g. the OIC, Arab League, the OAS, EU, and most of NATO), one would expect those states to cooperate with each other to a greater degree than with non-religionist states—thus leading to greater peace within those groupings, e.g. a “Christian peace” or “Islamic peace” analogous to the democratic peace. Such an outcome has little empirical support, however, for modern history is replete with cases of Christian states fighting other Christian states and Muslim states fighting other Muslim states, with belligerents often being members of the same organization. I suggest that within the Institutionalist paradigm, religion’s strongest influence today is on Keohane’s third type of institution. Religion shapes the conventions that provide necessary foundations of states’ expectations of behavior. Prior to genuine, meaningful negotiation of rules, the “conventions” or common frames of reference for interaction must first be in place. A common religion between states could provide these frames of reference. Indeed, the lack of formal conventions for interaction could explain why independent non-Western—and non-Christian—states were not admitted into the Westphalian system until long after the East European and American states; Turkey was not admitted into the European “family” until 1856 despite constant interaction with it for centuries,8 and the Correlates of War dataset does not include Persia or China in the state system until 1855 and 1860, respectively (Correlates of War Project, 2017a). However, this level of influence is of little utility in predicting states’ propensities to attack other states, for the existence of religiously based common frames of reference does not imply the existence of pacific relations. A religion’s “conventions” may foster peacemaking, or conflict (see Appleby, 2000). Furthermore, the fact that the Westphalian system today is so religiously diverse compared to that of the 19th century suggests that secular conventions of interaction now have supplanted religious conventions. In the international relations of today, the influence of religion in the Institutionalist paradigm would also seem to be fairly limited. Constructivism In the Constructivist paradigm of IR, states are viewed in terms of their relationships not with the structural configuration of power, but with the structure of norms and possibly identities as well (Dessler, 1989; Checkel, 1998; Wendt, 1992, 1999). In a nutshell, the normative structure is instantiated in the actions of the agents within the structure (states), and the agents’ actions in turn (re)produce the structure, in an endless co-constitutive cycle (Dessler, 1989). This is the process by which customary international law is formed (including the law of primary interest in this volume—jus ad bellum), as well as by which certain practices are socialized to the state system and adopted by states with

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comparatively little use for them, such as developing states formulating industrial scientific research policies and procuring heavy armor (Finnemore, 1996). By virtue of Constructivism’s emphasis on norms, one would expect this paradigm to be especially accommodating to theories of religion in IR, given religion’s equally strong emphasis on norms. By this logic, religious ideas would be socialized into state structures and into the identities and interests of states themselves, just like ideas from other sources. Structural, systemic concepts such as anarchy, sovereignty, power, wealth, and security all are beholden to the ideas that give those terms meaning. For example, Philpott (2000, 2001) argues that the Westphalian concept of sovereignty is rooted in Protestant norms that advance individual agency. The notion that religious norms affects foreign policy even predates Neorealism; Niebuhr argued that a foreign policy unanchored in faith in a divine power leads the country to utopian illusions or cynicism and despair (see Tucker, 1953: 410) and Berger (1967: 26, 87) presented religion as an ordering mechanism and “bulwark” against chaos. Sandal and Fox (2013: chap. 7) thoroughly catalogue religion’s role in shaping worldviews, individual habits and emotions, public practices, legitimacy of governing regimes and institutions, public opinion, and ethnic and other forms of identity. But upon deeper inquiry, we find that a traditional Constructivist theory of religion’s impact has less explanatory power than expected, at least at the systemic level. Non-Western, non-Christian states also have embraced the concept of sovereignty outlined by Philpott—sometimes even more vigorously than Western states. Several concepts or goals are (or are claimed to be) universal; for example, all states would seem to have roughly the same idea of what it means to be wealthy or powerful. Because the world is religiously diverse, the only way for religion to have given meaning to certain concepts is for different religions to have inculcated the same meanings. However, if that were the case, then the content of different religions’ ad bellum war ethics should be the same and different religions should be generating the same preferences among states for war or peace. Instead, this book shows, in Chapters 4 through 6, that in fact religions’ ad bellum war ethics are not the same, and that different religions generate empirically different preferences for war or peace. Constructivism is a model for diffusion of norms throughout the state system, resulting in the convergence of states’ policy preferences. However, where propensity to attack is concerned, the empirical findings of this book and the articles that preceded it (Brown, 2014, 2015, 2017a) show a divergence of preferences, with different religions leading states to adopt different norms and thus different preferences. In sum, this section has explored religion’s potential to significantly enrich systemic IR theories and found it somewhat lacking. Yet much of Sandal and Fox’s (2013) and others’ explorations of religion’s effects are well considered and hardly refutable. Why is this the case? Because much of the theory—including that of Sandal and Fox—is better applicable to domestic decision- and policymaking. In other words, religion wields considerably more power to influence policy preferences from within the state than from without. We therefore set aside the Waltzian (1959) third image and move to the second.

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The place of religion in domestic policymaking In Waltz’s (1959) second image, state-level policymaking is influenced, or even generated by, the domestic structure of the state—primarily the structural features of its government and legal system (e.g. a democracy operating by rule of law may be more constrained in its decision-making than an absolute dictatorship), but also potentially by public opinion and even the state’s culture. In this section we examine the influence of religion on the domestic characteristics of states that induce preferences (thus outcomes). In contrast to the third image, the relationship of religion to IR in the second image appears to be stronger and more relevant. Neoclassical Realism Moravcsik (1997) argues persuasively that what states want to do, they do. But how does one predict what states want to do? I submit that the best model for explaining religion’s effects on IR is Neoclassical Realism (Rose, 1998; Lobell, Ripsman, and Taliaferro, 2009; Ripsman, Taliaferro, and Lobell, 2016). This is the only variant of Realism in which states’ internally generated preferences are taken into account. In its original form, Neoclassical Realism posits that systemic pressures, incentives, and constraints generate preferences for each state in the system. However, those systemic-level preferences are filtered by states’ own internal characteristics, e.g. structural constraints or other features of the governing regime. Those internal features may generate preferences of their own. Preferences originating from both levels are again filtered by individual characteristics, aspirations, and/or emotions of the state’s leader. How religion fits into this model is illustrated in Figure 2.1. The system generates preferences. Some preferences are filtered out by the state’s own internal characteristics but others are allowed to continue. For example, imagine State A and State B are in a dispute. Systemic pressures and incentives may generate a preference on the part of State A to attack State B, which is a democracy. However, if State A is a democracy also, the preference to attack is filtered out of State System

State/ Government

Individual Leader

Preferences

Figure 2.1 Religion as a preference filter in Neoclassical Realism.

Action

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the range of options, in accordance with the dyadic democratic peace. Religion acts as one of several such filters. In the example just provided, the Christian just war tradition may filter out the preference to attack State B, on the grounds that State B has committed no injury great enough to warrant force in response (see Chapter 4). But in addition to filtering out systemic preferences, the state’s own internal characteristics—including its dominant religion—generate preferences also, as shown in Figure 2.2. These domestic preferences, along with the remaining, unfiltered systemic preferences, pass to the state’s chief executive or other leading decision-maker. The leader’s individual characteristics then act as another filter. For example, a preference to negotiate an agreement with State B might be filtered out by that individual leader’s past experience in negotiating similar agreements. If State A’s leader had been burned previously, e.g. by other states violating similar agreements, then she or he would be more reluctant to enter into a similar arrangement here (the effects of analogy; Khong, 1992). Religion may act as a filter as this level also—again alongside other personal and psychological characteristics. For example, if such an agreement were to impose or permit some activity that were offensive to the leader’s morals, then the leader may be less inclined to pursue such a solution than otherwise. More recent Neoclassical Realist literature reflects the realization that the causal direction just described may also act in reverse. The state’s leader may generate preferences based on his or her intellect, experiences, emotions, aspirations, or fears. Those preferences may be filtered by the domestic characteristics of the state or its government. For example, State A’s leader’s desire to invade State B may be checked by domestic law prohibiting it or by lack of public support. Even if that desire were not constrained internally, it might be constrained at the systemic level if the combined power of other states opposing such an invasion were enough to overcome State A’s power. In this model, religion acts as a generator of preferences alongside other factors of political psychology and domestic characteristics. For example, State A’s leader may regard attacking State

State System

Action

State/ Government

Individual Leader

Preferences

Figure 2.2 Religion as a preference generator in Neoclassical Realism.

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B as a moral duty, but be constrained by domestic checks on his/her power or by deterrent threats from other states. The remainder of this section covers two topics. First, at what levels of foreign policymaking does religion work? Religion’s influence at the systemic level has already been explored and found relatively lacking, but what about the individual state leader, the state’s governing regime, and its population? Second, what kinds of preferences do religions instill and how? Are these preferences solely material, or can they be ideational as well? These questions are explored with particular reference to propensity to use military force on another state. Three levels of religion’s influence Waltz (1959) theorized there to be three primary levels, or “images,” of foreign policymaking. The third image is the state system, which Waltz argues has the strongest effect on states’ foreign policy preferences but which I have shown is not so strong for religion. The second image is the domestic structure of the state—which I would expand to include the state’s characteristics. These characteristics include regime type (democracy, autocracy, etc.) but also the cultural characteristics of the state. These cultural characteristics influence both the governing regime (Waltz’s second image), and the population (which has been called “image 1½”). The first image is the individual state leader. Religion’s influence on the individual In this section we detour briefly into the discipline of political psychology: the political and policymaking ramifications of pathologies of human behavior. Security studies is incomplete without the psychological element, which is useful not just for understanding and applying concepts such as misperception and Social Identity Theory, but also the deeper dimensions of ideas, beliefs, perceptions, and identities (Goldgeier, 1997). Every state’s central government has one individual (and very occasionally, more than one) who acts as the final authority to decide whether the state will undertake a military operation. Despite Rubin’s (1994) claim that national elites are often more cosmopolitan and cynical—and better educated—than the masses, thus less susceptible to direct influence of religious ideas, I contend that states’ national elites, including their chief executives, are as much influenced by religiously based beliefs of fact, causation, and rectitude as anyone else. One aspect of these ideas, beliefs, and perceptions is that human beings have different priorities of psychological needs, and when one category of needs is satisfied, human nature is to crave the next higher category (Maslow, 1943). These needs are, in order of priority: physical/biological safety, affection or belonging (e.g. love), self-esteem, and self-actualization. The relationship between self-esteem and politics is that people with higher self-esteem are more trusting, therefore more opposed to using force, but are also more risk-acceptant because they have greater confidence in their abilities (see Cashman, 1993: 39).

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Winter and Stewart (1977) write of a different relationship between psychological needs and propensity to go to war: a leader with a greater need for affiliation or achievement is more cooperative and less inclined to resort to force, whereas a leader with a greater need for power is more inclined. Religion may influence leaders’ propensities to resort to force by defining their needs, i.e. instilling meaning into the psychological needs of love and affiliation, enhancing or detracting from self-esteem, and defining the parameters of selfactualization. Religion may also insert itself into the mechanics of cognitive dissonance. When new information about a situation does not fit within a leader’s own image of reality, the leader processes that new information in a variety of ways designed to suppress it, including ignoring it, discrediting the source, or distorting it so that it fits within the leader’s preconceptions (Holsti, 1967). It is possible to change the leader’s image of reality, but only by presenting information that is new, unambiguous, and in overwhelmingly large quantity, or alternatively from sources with the same backgrounds and concerns as the receiver (Jervis, 1968). Religion shapes the leader’s image of reality, including beliefs of fact and causation, and someone with a religious background similar to the leader’s may be able to convey new information more effectively than otherwise. Religion may also influence the practice of “perceptual satisficing,” in which a leader, having recognized the need to reformulate an image of reality, adopts the first formulation that minimally fits (Lebow, 1981: 105). Religion shapes the leader’s perception of reality, and it shapes the nature of that minimal requirement that the new information must satisfy in order to fit within the leader’s perception of reality. Much has been written on (mis)perceptions, which are caused by cognitive and motivational biases. Cognitive bias is caused by the human psychological need for information to comport with one’s image of reality (discussed above). In security matters, misperceptions may lead to war because the leader over- or under-estimates the capabilities, but more importantly, the intentions of other actors (Levy, 1983). An over-estimation of capabilities or of aggressive intentions sets into motion the pathology of the security dilemma (Jervis, 1978). When a leader sitting on the brink of war believes that his adversary will strike him, war is more likely—and most likely when the leaders on each side harbor the same belief about the other (Stoessinger, 2010). Religion may introduce cognitive bias by assigning different meanings to the same words and actions, causing leaders to misperceive each other’s intentions. Motivational bias is caused by the human need to construct and maintain a positive image of oneself and the environment. For example, prior to the outbreak of World War I, the German Kaiser wanted to diffuse the July Crisis so badly that he failed to recognize the plain warning signs that Germany likely would be defeated in war (Lebow, 1981: chap. 5). This is the phenomenon of defensive avoidance, in which the leader tries to avoid fear-arousing warnings in situations in which his current policy entails serious risks but no better alternative is known (Janis and Mann, 1977).

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Religion may contribute to motivational bias by setting priorities and goals. Glazier (2013) shows a link between providential beliefs (belief in a divine plan) and foreign policy attitudes. Glazier’s focus is on public opinion but the same mechanism should work on regime elites, who are, after all, drawn from the country’s population and who also may be religious. Religion may further contribute to motivational bias by defining the limits of acceptable adverse consequences, i.e. losses. Prospect Theory theorizes that leaders will be more risk-acceptant to avoid losses and more risk-averse in seeking gains, for a loss hurts psychologically more than a gain pleases (Kahneman and Tversky, 1979; see also McDermott, 2004). Religion may impact Prospect Theory by setting priorities of loss or gain, e.g. a “loss” of something may be more painful in one religion than in another. These various motives of human behavior—cognitions, perceptions, satisfaction of gain, pain of loss—all are products of the under-theorized effects of emotion in international relations (Mercer, 2006; see also Ross, 2006: 197–204). In a challenge to the conventional supposition that actors are rational, Crawford (2000) presents emotion as an under-studied factor in the practices of diplomacy and negotiation, the eruption of war, the failure of peacebuilding, and the fear that drives the security dilemma (see also Bleiker and Hutchison, 2008: 116). In the wake of the 9/11 attacks, several works have examined the effect of trauma in generating political outcomes (Edkins, 2003; Ross, 2006: 212–4; Hutchison, 2010). Others have explored the effect of emotion in formulating identity and interests (Bleiker and Hutchison, 2008; Hutchison, 2010) and the related outcome of group reactions, perceptions, and behavior (Sasley, 2011). As Bleiker and Hutchison (2008: 123) put it, Emotions help us make sense of ourselves, and situate us in relation to others and the world that surrounds us. They frame forms of personal and social understanding, and are thus inclinations that lead individuals to locate their identity within a wider collective. This body of literature also explores the effects of emotions on perceptions, cognitions, and rationality (Bleiker and Hutchison, 2008), with Mercer (2006, 2010) taking the extraordinary position that rationality itself is dependent on emotion9 and that cognition and emotion are indistinguishable in the human brain. Emotions drive Prospect Theory and contribute to the “feeling” of identity, the formation of norms, and the fostering of trust (Mercer, 2006: 296–9). Different emotions wield different effects on political decisions. McDermott (2011) surveys the effects of anger on the decisions of U.S. presidents (and by extension, the leaders of all states): [W]hen individuals feel that some standard of purity has been violated, they are more likely to feel disgust, just as when they feel some standard of justice has been violated, they are more likely to feel anger…. When someone has

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been treated unjustly, anger can motivate observers or victims to try to right that wrong (2011: 8). She argues that anger influences constructions of morality and induces misperceptions of capability (Mercer [2006, 2010] makes a related claim). Saurette (2006) and Fattah and Fierke (2009) explore the effect of the related emotion of humiliation; Saurette on U.S. foreign policy, and Fattah and Fierke on the framework for meanings in international interactions in the Middle East and the subsequent emergence of Islam as a basis for identity.10 Such negative emotions influence specifically the onset of armed conflict by fostering desires for revenge, which itself may be emotionally satisfying (L¨owenheim and Heimann, 2008). Religious principles may influence the onset of anger or humiliation, by informing those very standards of behavior or honor, the violation of which is likely to induce such emotions, and by prescribing certain remediations.11 Furthermore, by setting standards of empathy and charity (i.e. toward whom and for what), religious principles may also influence the amount of trauma felt by populations and governments when people are victimized. Religion may have similar influences on other emotions that influence elites’ political decisions, such as pride (Hymans, 2006), shame (Mercer, 2006: 298), awe, empathy, or joy. Religion’s influence on the population The previous section examined religion’s influence on political actors through the lens of the subfield of political psychology. In contrast, this section treats religion’s influence through the disciplinary lens of sociology of religion. In that subfield’s classical literature, two views emerge. Durkheim ([1912] 2008) viewed religion as a glue that holds society together. As Robertson Smith (1927: 29) put it, “[R]eligion does not exist for the saving of souls but for the preservation and welfare of society.” Although that glue’s active ingredient is the corpus of shared beliefs within that society, the fundamental variable flowing from that literature is identity. This view has spawned considerable literature on causes of ethnic conflict and is the fundamental root of conflict of Huntington’s (1993, 1996) clash of civilizations thesis. Thomas (2005: 87–90), drawing upon the works of Alasdair MacIntyre, argues that a religious tradition actually emerges originally as a social tradition, and that values and ethical conceptions about the nature of good, justice, rightness, and obligation, as well as the rationality upon which these things are based, “are socially embodied in particular social traditions and communities.” Religion is reduced to “a set of practices that constitutes a social tradition,” and rationality is the “conception of the good embodied in a particular social tradition or community.” To Thomas, there is no rationality independent of tradition; there is “no view from nowhere.” In sum, one’s rationality depends on his or her identity. In IR theory, such rationality is treated in accounts of Social Identity Theory, in which the in-group naturally acquires a latent hostility toward the out-group (Tajfel and Turner, 1979; Mercer, 1995). It is also treated in accounts of the origin of nationalism, in which

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individuals who need greater self-fulfillment turn to their national identity for that fulfillment (Lebow, 2008: 17; see also Levy, 1989b: 271–2). And it does seem intuitive that the role of religion in the formation of social and/or political identity would be strong (see Seul, 1999). Notwithstanding the logic of Social Identity Theory, and further notwithstanding that religions do ground the formation of social identities, I have several objections to treating different religions solely as identities. First, the religious identity approach does not problematize the preferences associated with social identity; for example, it does not explain why Islam prescribes death for apostasy but Christianity does not, even though both religions aspire to universality. Second, the claim that there is no rationality independent of tradition does not ring true to religionists: the core meanings, values, priorities, cognitions, and prescriptions in most religions do not arise out of practice, but from the teachings and scripture that speak for a higher, transcendent or divine entity. Indeed, religious prophets’ original teachings often radically depart from the prevailing tradition, which is why societies tend to be hostile to the original prophets of a religion (e.g. Jesus with respect to the Jews and Muhammad with respect to the Meccans). From the perspectives of religions’ prophets, their immediate followers, and generations of religionists after the prophet is long gone, religious prescriptions really do come from “nowhere”—from no temporal, physical location, but instead from divine prescription or inspiration. One particularly powerful argument in favor of the religious identity approach flows from the traditional treatment of interest groups within the theory of Neoclassical Realism. Snyder (1991) argues that states’ preferences are determined by the interests of rent-seeking domestic groups. If this supposition is correct, then the interests driving states’ preferences are material, not ideational, even if the interest group generating those preferences is religious in character (see Berger, 1967: 140). To borrow an example from history: the “civilizing mission” of European states from the 16th to the 19th centuries may have been motivated genuinely by the desire to propagate Christianity, or it may have been simply a veneer of legitimacy for material acquisition (Pagden, 2003: chaps. 5, 10). Contemporaneous Spanish Jesuit theologians professed there to be a right to preach the Gospel to the natives in the New World, as well as the prerogative of the Spanish conquistadors to use force to defend that right (Vitoria, 1991a: q. 3, art. 2; Su´arez, 1944: sec. 1(2)). On the other hand, Bainton (1960: 165–6) quotes both Spanish conquistadors Hernando Cortez and Francisco Pizarro as frankly admitting that their motives were to acquire gold, not save souls. These accounts suggest that overall church support of the Spanish conquest in the New World, and even missionary activity during the 19th century, were actually motivated more by material concerns than spiritual. Smith (2000) illustrates a more contemporary tension in the foreign policy advocacy of ethnically based interest groups in the United States. He argues that ethnic groups lobby for policies that promote human rights and economic aid for their ethnic confreres. Carried over to religion, the inference is that religious institutions will rent-seek in favor of the material interests of themselves and

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their members (the greater number of members and the wealthier those members, the more powerful the religious institution). In this respect, religious institutions would act no differently than secular interest groups (recall the approach of the Religious Economy School recounted in Chapter 1). By this logic, it is not religious ideas that influence foreign policy preferences, but the material interests of religious institutions. Although this alternative explanation for the foreign policy preferences of religion might seem plausible prima facie, deeper reflection reveals it to be excessively and inappropriately cynical. Let us assume for the moment that Bainton’s attributions of motives to Cortez and Pizarro are factually true (we might even assume that their motives were shared by the Spanish crown). That is evidence not that they conquered at the behest of the Church or with the Church’s support, but instead that the Church’s motivation for supporting the Spanish presence in the New World, along with its protests of abuse, did not sway the conquistadors or their political leadership. To claim that the Spanish plundered the New World with the Church’s support is to choose not to take the writings and preachings of Vitoria, Su´arez, and other church authorities at their word, yet without any evidence of disingenuity on their part. In the case of 19th-century missionaries, Woodberry (2012) shows convincingly that the historical prevalence of Protestant missionaries explains half of the variance in democracy in the developing world today; missionaries motivated by material gain would not have introduced and fostered religious liberty, literacy, printing, and civic organizations. In addition, the genesis of the practice of humanitarian intervention by European countries in the 19th century was the perceived need to protect Christians from oppression at the hands of non-Christian rulers, not the material interests of the interveners (Murphy, 1996: 49–57). Finally, Smith’s claim is that ethnic groups seek to influence American foreign policy not wholly for the sake of their own material interest, but also to improve the human rights of their ethnic confreres outside the country (not their own rights within the country). In sum, states’ preferences are at least influenced by domestic interest groups. However, not all domestic groups’ interests are rent-seeking. Some can be altruistic—and this is particularly true for domestic groups based on religion, the goals of which are less concerned with material prosperity than with attaining a pleasant afterlife. Religion’s influence on the government In contrast to Durkheim, Weber ([1922] 1978) viewed religion as a coercive vehicle for enforcing order, by distributing religious benefits to the compliant and denying them to the dissident.12 Weber sees religion’s popular appeal lying in its offer of comfort to the suffering and promise of release from the same (1958a: 272–4). In this way, religion inserts itself into public opinion by defining its interests, conveying its expectations, and prescribing actions (1958a: 280–5), much as any other ideology does. This approach to examining religion’s effects on political outcomes is more sound than that offered by Durkheim.

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However, I do have two minor objections to Weber’s theory. First, Weber denies that political elites are influenced by religion—only the (unsophisticated) public. Yet both historical common knowledge and the professional literature are replete with examples of the contrary. This is true not only for the distant past, e.g. Europe’s religious wars during the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, but also the present and recent past. The examples of post-Revolutionary Iran and modern Israel need no citation. Less obvious examples include the respective faiths of Egyptian President Anwar Sadat (Heikal, 1975; Israeli, 1985; Brown, 2019b) and U.S. President George H.W. Bush (King, 1980; Smith, 1992; Parmet, 1997; Bush, 1999). Second, Weber’s presumption that religion is coercive does not take into account effects of soft power (Nye, 2004). The function of hard power is to compel an unwilling actor to do an act that the actor otherwise would not do, or refrain from an act that the actor would otherwise do (Dahl, 1957). The function of soft power, however, is to convert to the unwilling actor into a willing actor—to make the actor want to do as the soft power’s wielder desires. Religionists generally want to do as their respective religions prescribe (in addition to advancing their respective religions’ interests).13 These two objections, however, are relatively minor. Overall, the Weberian logic by which religion influences policy preferences is sound. Thus this section examines religion’s effects on political outcomes through the lens of public opinion and its influence on the elitehood.14 Understanding public influence on foreign policy, including war, necessitates understanding the reciprocal relationship between elitehood opinion and general public opinion (Kubiak, 2014). The elitehood acts as an “epistemic community” (Adler, 1992; Haas, 1992) that informs and educates government officials and the general public alike about issue areas, evaluates conditions and/or agendas as good or bad, and recommends policy. Although the elitehood most likely is drawn from organized business and labor and issue experts (Jacobs and Page, 2005), religious leaders often form part of it also. Sandal (2011, 2017) proposes that a religious institution, through its clergy, acts as an epistemic community, by providing expertise that informs and even programs a political agenda to a certain interest group. Religious epistemic communities may inform preferences not only of domestic interest groups, but also governing regimes and ultimately states themselves. However, this is a different phenomenon from religious institutions functioning like other, secular interest groups; here, religion affects a state’s political preferences because the epistemic community inculcates values and worldviews and prescribes behaviors to individuals, groups, communities, and ultimately entire populations, including especially the governing regimes that draw their officials from those populations. Public opinion constrains and/or moderates policy by acting as a gatekeeper that deters or dissuades policymakers from extremes (Key, 1961; Nincic, 1988; Sobel, 2001; Mintz, 2004). But whereas the public acts as a dike against elite opinion, elite opinion also shapes public opinion—including supporting or opposing war (Berinsky, 2007; see also Nincic, 1992; Page and Shapiro, 1992).

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Specifically, individuals are most influenced by those elites holding the most closely related values to their own (Berinsky, 2009; Zaller, 1992). For example, in Northern Ireland, it is surely no accident that the Protestant public is most influenced by Protestant leaders and the Catholic public by Catholic leaders. It follows that a public identifying with Religion X is more likely to respond favorably to elites whose opinions flow from the worldviews, values, conventions, and norms of Religion X. Put another way, religion confers legitimacy to some worldviews and preferences but not others (Sandal and Fox, 2013: 150–4). Intuitively, for example, a Christian public is not expected to embrace policy arguments based on a distinctly Islamic perspective and vice versa. These worldviews, values, conventions, and norms constitute what Powlick and Katz (1998: 33) label “latent opinion”: in their words, “ingrained sets of values, criteria for judgment, attitudes, preferences, dislikes.” A variety of cultural factors contribute to the public latent opinion, but religion is surely among them. In this way, religion already has been linked directly to public foreign policy preferences: for example, Daniels (2005) shows an empirical relationship between a person’s religious affiliation and international policy preferences. Koplow (2011) shows how U.S. governmental support of Israel results from American public support, which itself is generated by religious affinities toward Israel. Sucharov (2011) shows that Diaspora Jews are more likely to invoke specifically Jewish values when critiquing Israeli policy. The substance of public opinion on specific issues, e.g. whether to fight this country or aid that one, can flow from religionists’ corporate rational, material interests as the Religious Economy School suggests—but they also flow from religions’ ethical prescriptions. Indeed, I argue that religion influences public opinion primarily through ethics. As Lynch (2009: 397) puts it, “[R]eligious ethics provide people with a foundation for pursuing goals they believe are valuable, both for themselves and others. Religion … guides adherents in practices designed to maintain or bring about the ‘common good.’” This “common good” motivates people to action, private citizens and public officials alike. In these ways, religion is and functions as Wilson (2012: 16) describes: It is more than simply an institutional, rent-seeking interest group. It is also ideational—a set of ideas that program people to action. Its influence operates not only at the level of the individual, but also at that of the broader community—along with the regime elites who are drawn from that community.15 The totality of the above yields the first hypothesis of this book: H1: Religion influences the preferences and decisions of states to initiate interstate armed conflicts.

Sources and content of religious war ethics Two tasks remain for this chapter. The first is an exploration of the sources of religious ethics broadly speaking, including war ethics. I will show that for religions generally, the three sources are scripture, priesthood, and historical

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narrative. The second task is to outline a structure for classifying the content of war ethics. Religious war ethics fit neatly into it, though the structure accommodates non-religious war ethics also. Sources of religious ethics By “religious ethics” we are referring to religiously instilled beliefs of fact, causation, and rectitude (see Krasner, 1982: 186). These are the beliefs that program individuals, groups, and institutions to react to conditions and stimuli. Weber conceptualized the existence of “practical religion” as the vehicle by which religious precepts are translated into action or restraint. Such action or restraint can be political. Almond, Verba, and Pye formulated the premise that “deeply embedded beliefs … lead to certain probabilistic political attitudes and actions” (Laitin, 1978: 563, citing Almond, 1956; Almond and Verba, 1963; Pye and Verba, 1965). Dark (2000: ix) reminds us that religious factors affect human decision-making and actions—and because states are comprised of people, religious beliefs and affiliations can affect the states’ decision-making and actions as well. Studies of religion’s influence on political outcomes have articulated the process several ways. The standard constructivist explanation, summarized by Hasenclever and Rittberger (2000: 647–8), is that Social conflicts are embedded in cognitive structures such as ideology, nationalism, ethnicity, or religion. These structures, which consist of “shared understandings, expectations, and social knowledge,” provide social actors with value-laden conceptions of the self and others and consequently affect their strategic choices. Although power and interests do play a crucial role in explaining politics, constructivists argue that they are embedded in cognitive structures that give them meaning. Furthermore, although political leaders do exercise some degree of agency in the outbreak of conflict, the religious traditions that influence them are intersubjective structures with lives of their own, and political leaders cannot simply manipulate those religious traditions at will. But just how does the “religious tradition” come about? Weber theorized that religion emerges by way of a charismatic prophet who systematizes the culture’s beliefs in gods, magic, and other supernatural phenomena that are attractive to the culture. A sense of celestial stability, regularity, and authority is usually appealing to the masses, who are victims of the impetuosity and caprice of human authority and the forces of nature. The oppressed masses take comfort in the promise that their earthly suffering will be rewarded in the afterlife (Weber, 1958a, 1963). The emergence of religion, to Weber, was a response to unmet needs,16 and as rational society progressed to the point at which material human needs would be satisfied, the need for religion would wane and eventually disappear. Religion, in essence, was a pre-modern relic (see Bellin, 2008: 317). However, the secularization literature well documents that religion overall has not waned, despite

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improvements in material circumstances. Moreover, evidence obtained from the archeological site G¨obekli Tepe in southern Turkey indicates the existence of organized religion 11,600 years ago—in prehistory (Mann, 2011). Anthropologists had believed organized religion to be developed in the first civilizations as a response to the newly discovered social tensions associated with the larger communities that were necessary to sustain agriculture. The ruins at G¨obekli Tepe, however, are evidence of the existence of organized religion by huntergathers, 5000 years before the development of agriculture or its sustaining communities. These things suggest a more apt explanation for the emergence of religion. Following Eliade (1959), Hasson (2004: 153) notes that “Human beings typically come with a built-in thirst for the transcendent,”17 or put another way, that man needs something larger than itself to make its existence meaningful. Religion can provide meaning to human existence in several ways. First, the primary concern of many religions is the condition of souls in the afterlife. In Christian thought, for example, the soul may go to heaven (a place of eternal blessing) or hell (a place of eternal torment). Religions prescribe certain behavior during one’s lifetime, with most of them prescribing such behavior as a prerequisite to earning a happy afterlife (the exception is Christianity). Some prescriptions of individual behavior, such as a duty of charity, may spill into the rubric of statecraft. A second way religion may provide meaning to human existence is through the worship of an entity inspiring awe in humans—a god. Humans may find existential meaning in worshipping an awesome god and obeying that god’s commands, including its prescriptions of behavior (and potentially of statecraft). A third view, suggested by Otis (2004), treats religious prescriptions more as personal benefits than commands or personal incentives; because obeying religious behavioral prescriptions is a condition of a happy afterlife, such obedience is materially rational, even though the “material” itself is otherworldly. The process by which religion provides meaning to human existence is to instill values, priorities, cognitions, and prescriptions—in other words, norms—which assist people in understanding the meaning and value of their lives. In explaining the meaning and value of life, religion also prescribes the conditions under which taking life is justifiable. Indeed, Otis (2004: 19) asserts that this is the role of religion in precipitating deadly conflict. One immediate benefit of norms governing state behavior is that they simplify the decision-making process: By prescribing the preferred choice in advance, norms reduce the complexity of the choice-situation (Kratochwil, 1989). Another benefit of norms may be to assist actors in discovering what actions confer long-term benefits to both sides; Gelpi (2003) adopts this approach in his study of the construction of normative standards of behavior in militarized disputes by states themselves, via settlement agreements. These arguments are logical and plausible in their own terms, but when applied to religion, they miss the point. The point is that through any of the alternatives described here (or perhaps all of them), individuals adopt standards of behavior acquired from transcendental sources, and carry those standards with them when conducting statecraft.

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The acquisition of a religious standard of behavior by itself is insufficient to influence others. Those standards also must be transmitted. Weber theorized that the prescriptions for taking life, along with the rest of religions’ meanings, values, prescriptions, etc., are first conveyed to the masses through a charismatic prophet, and the prescribed behavior is induced through psychological sanctions (Weber, 1958b; see also Laitin, 1978: 565–6). Weber further proposed that the priesthood would systematize the two types of social influences (the charismatic prophet and the enduring habits of the masses). As religion expands, the religious doctrine and the culture (the totality of the political and socioeconomic conditions) interact with each other (Laitin, 1978: 572). That may be true to some extent, but as Berger (1999) rightly points out, religions have developed their own identities, and as such they influence cultural norms, values, priorities, and cognitions independently. For example, Philpott (2000, 2001) attributes the modern concept of state sovereignty to Protestantism and Stark (2005) attributes the success of Western capitalism to Christian faith in progress and Christian concepts of human rights including property rights. These works are accounts of how religion has changed entire cultures, and they serve to corroborate Berger’s claim. Weber is right to attribute social influence to a charismatic prophet (as evidence of this we need look no further than Jesus and Mohammed), but as to how the religion endures after the prophet is gone, I suggest the media of transmission are broader than those articulated by Weber. I argue that religious principles are transmitted through the persuasive power of three media. The first medium is religious scripture, e.g. the Bible, Quran, or Pali Canon. Scripture provides a written record of the teachings of the prophet, plus accounts of historical events, circumstances, and environments that are relevant to interpreting the prophet’s teachings. A basic principle of biblical exegesis, for example, is to take into account whom the prophet is addressing and why. As a written record, scripture memorializes the prophet’s teachings in a more permanent fashion than oral histories do, and the more widely disseminated the scripture, the more resistant it becomes to meaning-altering changes. The scripture may influence people directly, i.e. by being widely read, or its content may be disseminated through the second (but by no means secondary) medium by which religious principles are transmitted. The second medium is generated by what loosely may be characterized as the priesthood or, more accurately, the writings of the priesthood. Weber rightly points out that the priesthood’s role is to systematize the prophet’s teachings. But once that work is completed, the priesthood’s function is to interpret the prophet’s teachings in light of new events and circumstances; otherwise, the religion becomes fossilized and soon loses its relevance and eventually its persuasive power. Furthermore, it takes a charismatic priesthood to continue to persuade people to adhere to the religious principles and behavioral prescriptions long after the prophet is gone. An enduring priesthood is necessary to perpetuate the religious tradition, but the priestly teachings that enjoy the most durable persuasive power are those that are written down, so that they, like scripture, are accessible to

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a much wider audience during and after the priests’ lifetimes. Examples of such writings include the works of Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, John Calvin, and classical Islamic scholars (especially legal scholars, given the centrality of law to so many facets of Islamic life). Each stage of a religion’s development—prophet, scripture, priesthood—builds upon the previous stage. The prophet provides the Weberian ideal-types necessary for the formulation of scripture. The priesthood provides the ideal-types necessary for scripture’s contextualization. Once scripture, priesthood, and the religious institution itself all are organized, they provide rationalization—they systematize and institutionalize the religion’s precepts into a broader socioeconomic phenomenon (Lynch, 2009: 391–2). But there is a third medium for the transmission of religious ethics and norms, which I submit is neglected in the Weberian model because it surfaces primarily in religions other than Christianity. That third medium is historical narrative. Some religions, including Islam and various forms of Buddhism, emphasize events and actions and the stories that emerge from them. Examples include compilations of Islamic hadith (non-scriptural compilations of the words, actions, and decisions of the Prophet Muhammad), traditional biographies of the Prophet and histories of the early expansion of Islam, and classical historical sagas in Buddhist tradition. These narratives serve as the bases for analogizing current events to past events and thus assist in prescribing the appropriate reactions. Khong (1992) shows how states’ leaders make decisions in crises by analogizing those crises to previous crises and their outcomes; I argue that in religion traditions, such analogizing takes place within entire cultures. Through these three media (scripture, priesthood, and historical narrative), the meanings, values, priorities, cognitions, and prescriptions of human life are instilled into whole societies and cultures, one person at a time. The result is not unlike that which forms the “operational code” in the so-named literature. An “operational code” consists of the “values, world view, and response repertoire which an individual acquires and shares with other members of an organization” (Walker, 1990: 403; see also Walker, Schafer, and Young, 1999). In this way, the individuals within an institution internalize certain rules of conduct and norms of behavior, and those rules and norms become their identity (George, 1969) and thus the institution’s identity as well (see Feng, 2005). This literature originated from analysis of Bolshevism (Leites, 1953), but the same process applies to any ideology, including a religion, and for any grouping of people, including a state. In this way, a state acquires characteristics that amount to a religiously rooted ideology. Once rooted in culture, religion functions in the same way as any other ideology. Political ideologies serve four functions: (1) explain socioeconomic and political conditions by ascribing causes; (2) evaluate such conditions as desirable or undesirable; (3) orient people by furnishing them their identities; and (4) prescribe social and political action (Ball and Dagger, 2011: 4–6). Religion performs all four functions as well.18

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Classifying war ethics19 In much of the world, national identification is still largely a function of religious affiliation (Rubin, 1994: 22–3). As such, religion has been a central pillar of political life and remains so, despite perceptions of its reduced effects in the secularized West (Rubin, 1994: 20). As a central political pillar, religion provides two related functions pertaining to violence. The first is the ordering function: religion’s cosmological function is to subdue the chaos of violent disruption. As Juergensmeyer (1993: 159) puts it, “[R]eligion is order-restoring and life-affirming even though it may justify the taking of life.” This leads us to the second, related function: religion legitimizes and delegitimizes violence. “In challenging the state’s authority today’s religious activists, wherever they assert themselves around the world, reclaim the traditional right of religious authorities to say when violence is moral and when it is not” (Juergensmeyer, 1993: 33–4). However, each religion has a different idea not only of the proper order of things (Kepel, 1994: 192), but also of the causes and conditions that justify violence, including war and other forms of corporate political violence. Here we enter the domain of comparative war ethics (some literature is already catalogued in the previous chapter). War ethics, both religious and secular, are classifiable along a grid measuring militancy on one axis and beneficiary on the other. As shown in Figure 2.3, a permissive war ethic lies on the left side of the X (horizontal) axis and a restrictive war ethic on the right side. The Y (vertical) axis is a continuum from selfregarding motive (top) to other-regarding motive (bottom). Different war ethics can be placed at various points relative to each other on this grid.

Other-regarding

Holy war

Pacifism

Militant

Restrained

Realism

Isolationism

Self-regarding

Figure 2.3 Typology of war ethics.

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The X axis captures the extent to which the “state” (i.e. its governing regime) prefers using force. At the left extreme, the state prefers using force, is quick to do so, and always does. At the right extreme, the state absolutely prefers not resorting to force and will not do so regardless of cause. At the midpoint, the state has no preference for war or peace, and the decision to do so would be solely based on regard for others or itself—and the decision to use force hinges solely upon the degree to which the war ethic is primarily self- or other-regarding. The Y axis captures the extent to which the state makes decisions with greater regard to the interest of others or to its own self-interest. At the extreme top, the state’s decisions are made solely to advance the interest, utility, or well-being of others. At the extreme bottom, its decisions are made solely with regard to its own interest, utility, or well-being. At the midpoint, the state is indifferent as to whether to act in the interest of others or self, and its decision is based solely the extent to which the war ethic is permissive or restrictive. By virtue of having two axes, the grid contains four quadrants. On the bottom left is the Realist quadrant. Realism is inherently self-regarding and in realist IR theories, states are quick to use force if doing so is expected confer a benefit to itself. In contrast, an ethic of self-interested restraint is better characterized as Isolationist. This war ethic occupies the bottom-right quadrant of the grid. Because the three religions examined in this volume—Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism—all have war ethics classifiable as other-regarding instead of selfregarding, the bottom quadrants are treated no further here.20 The top right quadrant is Pacifism. In this quadrant, the state refrains from using force because its reluctance to do so flows from regard for the interest and well-being of others. Using force nearly always results in death and destruction, and the pacifist considers doing so to constitute an evil in two respects. One is from the standpoint of the categorical imperative: doing any harm to others is evil per se, and as Christian thought puts it, one must not return evil for evil (Romans 12:17-21). From the standpoint of other-regarding behavior, using force brings about harm to the attacked party or third parties, and that harm is always disproportionately greater than any otherwise just cause that the attacker may have. At its furthest extreme, the pacifist state refrains from resorting to force regardless of cause or provocation, even in self-defense, because doing so is morally wrong absolutely, even though the state has the capability to use force. These obviously are extreme cases, the likes of which we do not expect to see in statecraft today. However, we may draw analogies to states that have refrained from establishing military organizations of their own, even though they have the capability to do so. A prime example is Costa Rica, whose President abolished its armed forces in 1948 and whose 1949 Constitution formalizes that abolition (in article 12). The top left quadrant is Holy War. In this quadrant, the state is quick to use force to advance a particular cause, because doing so is regarded as being in the best interest of others. In Holy War, the benefit to others in advancing that cause is expected to exceed the harm that the violence inflicts. The “other” could be the actor’s adversary, whom the actor must destroy in order to save, so to speak; or

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the “other” could be third parties, such as another state’s population that might benefit from that state being attacked. Most often, however, the “other” is an unearthly entity, especially God. As its name suggest, most causes for holy war are grounded in religion (Johnson, 1997). The holy war ethic has dominated in each of the Abrahamic religions at some point in their respective histories, and I conjecture that no religion recognizing a discursive connection between mankind and God is immune to this phenomenon. Judeo-Christian scripture contain many references to God’s commandment that the Hebrews should conquer the Promised Land (Canaan) by force: “When you cross over the Jordan into the land of Canaan, you shall drive out all the inhabitants of the land from before you, … You shall take possession of the land and settle in it” (Numbers 33:51-53). What classifies this instance as other-regarding holy war, despite its obvious material benefit to the ancient Hebrews and harm to the original Canaanites, is that the war is undertaken to please a third party: God. At the top extreme of the Y axis is the war ethic of Just War. This war ethic is highly other-regarding, but ambivalent to being militant or restrained. Although a practitioner of Just War is reluctant to use force and contrite when he must, a just warrior does not hesitate to use force when necessary to advance the interest of others, e.g. to defend another person from unwarranted attack. However, force must at all times be tailored to serve the best interests of others: the just warrior must have the right intent (advance good or avoid evil) and the foreseeable good done for others must outweigh the foreseeable harm done to others, including harm to the adversary (Aquinas, 1952: ii–ii, q. 40, art. 1; Brown, 2008: chap. 7). The prevailing war ethics of different religions occupy different positions on the grid. A war ethic that is fundamentally permissive (and other-regarding) will lie in the top left quadrant; one that is fundamentally restrictive (and otherregarding) will lie in the top right. Each major religion has its own distinct ad bellum ethic of war, which over time its adherents tend to follow. Although the war ethics held by the totality of adherents within a religion may vary—and sometimes widely (see Hazlett, 2004: 107–14 for Christianity; Ridgeon, 2004: 148–53 for Islam)—the many interpretations of a religion’s war ethic tend to congregate around one interpretation that is more influential, therefore more intersubjective, than any other. This phenomenon is illustrated in Figure 2.4. As shown in the top two graphs, a preponderance of adherents of a religion may embrace a war ethic that is permissive or restrictive overall, even if within that religion they embrace a range of war ethics from highly militant to extremely pacifist. Each religion has an identifiable “median” war ethic. The third graph depicts a hypothetical “bi-modal” religion, in which its adherents cluster around opposing “modes” of war ethics. When superimposed (bottom graph), these median and bi-modal war ethics are distinguishable from each other. It follows, then, that an other-regarding religion with a permissive war ethic would be more likely to favor armed conflict, in order to bring about an outcome more favorable to its worldview or standard of ethical conduct. A religion with a

From religious ethics to state action Median

No. of adherents

Restrained

Militant

Permissive War Ethic Median

No. of adherents

Restrained

Militant

Restrictive War Ethic Mode

Mode

No. of adherents

Restrained

Militant

Bimodal War Ethic Bimodal Permissive median mode

Restrictive Bimodal median mode

No. of adherents

Restrained

Militant

Permissive, Restrictive, and Bimodal War Ethics Superimposed

Figure 2.4 Median and modal religious war ethics.

39

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From religious ethics to state action

restrictive war ethic would be less likely to favor armed conflict. A religion with a bi-modal war ethic seems most likely to embrace a level of permissiveness lying in the middle of the modes. If, as shown in the third graph from the top, that midpoint is neither strongly permissive nor restrictive, then that religion’s war ethic likely wields no influence on state practice (because the opposing war ethics cancel each other out). Hence, the second hypothesis of this book: H2: Different religions wield different influences on states’ preferences and decisions to initiate interstate armed conflicts. In the chapters that follow, each of the three types of religious war ethics (restrictive, permissive, bi-modal) will be linked to a particular major world religion and the two hypotheses will be tested empirically for each one.

Notes 1 Assuming it was ever dormant in the first place; see Chapter 1. 2 Modern IR theory typically eschews honor as a driver of international outcomes, preferring to focus on material capabilities only, but Lebow (2008) attempts to reclaim the classical role of honor in IR theory. 3 For a more optimist view of the potential to incorporate religion into Classical Realism, see Sandal and James (2011); Sandal and Fox (2013: chap. 3). Their optimism appears to be based on the potential contributions of religion to theories of misperceptions, as well as their quite correct insight that religion often is employed as a source of legitimacy. These, however, are first- and second-image theories of armed conflict onset, not third. 4 Treaty Establishing the Vatican State, with Financial Convention (Holy See-Italy), February 11, 1929 (“Lateran Treaty”), 130 BFSP 791, partially reprinted in 3 FHIG 895 (establishing the sovereign status of Vatican City). For a discussion of the unique position of the Holy See within the state system, see Vallier (1971). 5 Cf. Krasner’s (1982: 185) definition of “regime” as “a set of implicit or explicit principles, norms, rules, and decision-making procedures around which actors’ expectations converge.” What Krasner calls a “regime” Keohane calls an “institution.” 6 Cf. the definition of “positive international law” as the rules of state behavior explicitly drawn up by states with the intent to be bound by them. 7 Treaty of Tordesillas (Spain-Portugal), June 7, 1494, 2 FHIG 110; see also Bull Inter caetera of Pope Alexander VI, May 4, 1493, 2 FHIG 103. 8 Treaty of Peace [ending the Crimean War] (France, Great Britain, Ottoman Empire, Sardinia-Russia), March 30, 1856 (“Treaty of Paris”), 2 MPT 947, partially reprinted at 3 FHIG 19. 9 Citing medical evidence presented by Damasio (1994), Mercer (2006: 294) argues that the lack of emotion causes people to be irrational; without it, they lose the ability to make effective choices, engaging in endless cost-benefit analyses in even trivial decisions. 10 Fattah and Fierke (2009) take the position that the humiliation of the Islamic world, especially after 1967, is a major factor in the resurgence of Islam in an area that had been secularizing.

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11 For an illustration of all three of these emotional aspects, see L¨owenheim and Heimann (2008). 12 For a more thorough discussion of the differences of the Durkheimian and Weberian approaches, see Chaves (1994). 13 Chaves (1994: 75–6) finds Weber’s theory unsatisfactory for a different reason: that the psychic coercion by religious institutions just cannot match the level of physical coercion by the state. Instead, religion’s authority is rooted in its ability to legitimize, by reference to the supernatural. Chaves seems to be supporting his argument with reference to religious goods: deliverance from bad conditions, or actualizing good conditions (heavenly or earthly). However, in my opinion that does not necessarily support the assertion that religion legitimizes; it does, however, expand Weber’s thesis of religion’s influence through psychic coercion—it expands it to include psychic benefits. 14 Although the following citations focus generally on public opinion in the United States, it follows that the same processes work in all countries. Public opinion can influence policy decisions in all states, not just democracies (Weeks, 2008). 15 Wilson also shows persuasively that the irrational/rational dichotomy is also a false one, the claim of irrationality reflecting a secularist bias. However, whether religious ethics are rational or irrational is less relevant to political preferences and action than whether those ethical prescriptions are actually put into practice. 16 In Maslovian terms, these needs would range from biological to self-actualization (Maslow, 1943). 17 This assertion does not necessarily mean that humans have a psychological need to create a god for themselves; it could also mean that humans have a psychological need to find one. 18 Ball and Dagger themselves wrongly distinguish religions from other political ideologies due to their supernatural and teleological dimensions. Yet they cover several religiously inspired political ideologies: the Christian right, radical Islam, and the quasi-religion of Marxism, all of which perform the same functions as secular ideologies. 19 This section is drawn heavily from my articles “The Influence of Religion on Interstate Armed Conflict,” published in Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion (Brown, 2017a), and “A Typology of War Ethics” published in Journal of Military Ethics (Brown, 2017b). 20 See Brown (2017b) for further detail on the bottom two quadrants as well as the left, right, and bottom extremes of the axes.

3

Research design, independent variable, and preliminary results

Introduction This book’s research design has many moving pieces. The measurements are of the empirical relationship of religion—and religions—on states’ propensities to initiate armed conflicts with other states, from 1946 through 2010. The dependent variable, which departs from the more conventional measurement of armed conflict occurrence, is explained in further detail below. The independent variable, the religion “of” the state, is operationalized two ways: (1) religious identity of the state’s population, and (2) institutional preference of the state’s governing regime for one or more particular religions (“Government Religious Preference,” or “GRP”). Since GRP is the core independent variable for the second half of this book, the GRP dataset is presented in somewhat greater detail. The chapter then catalogues control variables and presents two types of models corresponding to two alternative sets of controls. Finally, this chapter presents several preliminary results.

Scope and operator Time period: 1946–2010 This study examines the practice of states from January 1, 1946 through December 31, 2010. The ending year is the last year of data coverage on the dependent variable. The starting year is selected for several reasons. Most immediately, 1946 is the first year for which annual data are available for a key control, Gross Domestic Product (GDP). Starting in 1946 also has secondary reasons and advantages. States’ individual characteristics are much more diverse after 1945 than before. Russett (1993: 73) points this out for regime type, wealth, and power differential, and I argue that this is true also for states’ religious characteristics. The Westphalian state system had few non-Christian states before World War II. Although the regressions performed for this book could have been run for 1816–1945 also (albeit without some important controls), doing so would yield little insight into religions’ comparative effects because the system contained too few non-Christian states for

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valid comparisons with Christianity. After 1945, states’ religious majorities and institutionally favored religions are far more diverse. Limiting the study to after 1945 also has the convenient advantage of isolating and measuring state practice during the UN Charter regime. This is important to the dependent variable of initiating interstate armed conflict because the ad bellum legal regime underwent radical change in 1945. From 1816 to 1918, states generally were more armed conflict-prone than today simply because resorting to force lay outside the domain of international law—there were no legal norms against doing so (Wheaton, 1936: sec. 295; Hall, 1890: sec. 1.3.16; Westlake, 1907: 3; Oppenheim, 1912: vol. 2, sec. 54).1 The legal restrictions during the Inter-War period, namely the League of Nations Covenant (1919) and KelloggBriand Pact (1928)2, were not universal but instead ad hoc—and in the Covenant, rather complex. Neither instrument was effective in constraining war. I have shown in other writings that the percentage of directed dyads in which one state initiated a fatal armed conflict against the other skyrocketed during the Inter-War period but has dropped significantly since 1946 (Brown, 2016b). Measuring only post-1945 state practice makes it possible to observe states’ propensities to militarize disputes into armed conflicts even in a legal and normative environment which strongly delegitimizes it (see Zacher, 2001; Diehl, Ku, and Zamora, 2003; Voeten, 2005; Tago, 2013). Limiting the study to the timeframe discussed does not put it out of place with other measurements of war onset. The democratic peace literature is replete with works measuring war onset only after 1945 (e.g. Weede, 1984; Maoz and Russett, 1993; Oneal and Ray, 1997; Pickering and Thompson, 1998; Souva and Prins, 2006; Mousseau, 2009). Unit of observation: directed dyad-year Many well-supported predictors of states’ conflict propensities are characteristics of other states. For example, Classical Realism predicts that states are more likely to militarize disputes with weaker states than stronger (“the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must”; Thucydides, 1998: bk. v, sec. 89). The democratic peace predicts that democracies do not fight other democracies (Kant, 1991; Doyle, 1983). These theories give rise to the convention of employing the dyad-year as unit of observation. This book follows that convention up to a point. However, I have long been frustrated with the misguided presumption that armed conflict between states “just happens”—as if opposing belligerents are equally responsible for conflict’s outbreak or equally absolvable therefrom. That presumption overlooks the necessary and sufficient condition for armed conflict occurrence: One state first uses military force against another. An armed conflict occurs because one state uses force against the other, forcing the other into an armed conflict whether or not it reciprocates in self-defense. This outcome cannot be observed by measuring only dyad-year observations. Furthermore, some characteristics influencing interstate armed conflict onset are directed, e.g. stronger versus weaker, cf. weaker versus stronger. Therefore, I follow Reiter and

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Stam (2002: 48) in measuring directed dyads (see also Quackenbush and Rudy, 2009: 281) and this work’s unit of observation is the directed dyad-year. Furthermore, I reject the convention of measuring only politically relevant dyads (dyads that are contiguous or contain at least one great power; Bremer, 1992; Maoz and Russett, 1993). That practice overlooks significant conflict potential between dyads that are not contiguous but still have sufficient interaction to put them at significant risk for armed conflict, e.g. intra-regional dyads, dyads of minor powers that are close allies with opposing poles, and dyads consisting of states and their former colonies. For example, the risk of armed conflict between Colombia and Sri Lanka may be so insignificant as to warrant their omission, but the risk between Ecuador and Nicaragua is not; nor is that between Canada and Poland during the Cold War, nor that between Belgium and its former colony, the DRC. Omitting such dyads would have real consequences—e.g. Belgium and the DRC have had multiple armed conflicts since 1960. Therefore, the dataset used for this book consists of all directed dyad-years from 1946 through 2010 (1,444,990 observations). Operator: Rare-Event Logit Regression The dependent variable, which is explained in the next section, is binary. The use of logit regressions to measure relationships between explanatory variables and changes to the probability of the observed outcome is well grounded in the IR literature. However, armed conflict is a rare event; therefore, to minimize rareevent bias endemic to logit regressions, the Rare-Event Logit Regression developed by King and Zeng (2001a, b) is used instead.3 All regressions are clustered by directed dyad.

Dependent variable: initiation of interstate armed conflict Why the usual DV is inadequate Art (1980: 5) theorized there to be four functions of force (defend, deter, compel, and “swagger”).4 But in my view, the ideal classification of the purposes of using force is reducible to something that is simpler than Art’s four functions, yet more complex than mere human depravity. Force is fundamentally either defensive or offensive. In the international legal academy, the New Haven School classifies force into two basic types. The first is value extension: extension or expansion of one’s utility, be it territory, material wealth, control, or some other form of power. The second is value conservation: defense of territory, wealth, etc., for oneself or for others (McDougal and Feliciano, 1961). This classification is quite useful, for it fleshes out (if abstractly) the meanings of “offensive” and “defensive.” Contemporary theories of armed conflict in IR normally do not problematize the purpose of force in this way (i.e. whether it is offensive or defensive). There are two likely explanations for this. One is that the two categories themselves have normative connotations and many theories are oblivious to norms. Another

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is that the field is primarily interested in the cause of offensive force only. This is logical most of the time, for a state almost always undertakes a defensive use of force in response to an offensive one. It is generally expected and assumed that a state rightly uses defensive force because some other state has used offensive force against it, thus the use of defensive force is easily explained. What the field strives to understand is what causes a state to be the first to resort to force (see Brown, 2019a). The Correlates of War (COW) project (www.correlatesofwar.org) provides data on thousands of conflicts, including armed conflicts, in the Militarized Interstate Disputes (MID) dataset. These events, commonly referred to as “MIDs,” form the basis of the dependent variable for this study. For each conflict, the MID dataset reports the states involved, its start and end dates, which side first “militarized” the conflict, degree of force used, and number of battle deaths. The dataset’s great detail and historical depth (now 1816–2010; Palmer et al., 2015) has made it a staple for researching interstate conflict. However, the MID dataset does not code directly the first use of force. This is not a problem when armed conflicts are assumed to “just happen”—i.e. systemic pressures, incentives, and constraints, states’ internal characteristics, and their material relationships lead some to conflict and ultimately war. But in reality, armed conflicts occur because one state chooses to use military force (cf. a mere threat or show of force) against the other.5 In doing so, the initiator forces the target to an armed conflict that most often the target did not desire.6 This is true whether or not the target chooses to use force to defend itself against the initiator. That is how an interstate armed conflict occurs. Since no other dataset captures this outcome directly for a long enough period of time,7 the dependent variable will be derived instead. Fortunately, other data in the MID dataset make this possible. “Use force” What does it mean for a state to “use force”? In international law, the best answer is found in the Definition of Aggression.8 Article 3 defines “aggression” as any of the following acts: (a) invasion, attack, or military occupation of any part of another state, however temporary; (b) bombardment or use of any weapons against the territory of another state; (c) blockade of another state; (d) armed attack on land, sea or air forces, or marine or air fleets, of another state; (e) use of visiting forces in another state (present originally by consent) in contravention of the consenting agreement, or keeping them there beyond the termination of that agreement; (f) allowing one’s territory to be used by another state to attack a third state; and (g) sending by or on behalf of a state of armed bands, groups, irregulars or mercenaries, to commit attacks on another state. The intentional (not accidental) commission of any of those acts constitutes an “act of aggression,” therefore a “use of force.” The MID dataset does not code militarization of disputes using the scheme just described.9 Instead, it codes each participant’s “Highest [Militarized] Activity”

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(HiAct) on a scale of 0 (no militarization) to 21 (joining a war). These 22 categories are ordered roughly according to the severity of the militarized action: a blockade is a more severe use of force than a mere border violation, a territorial occupation is more severe than a blockade, etc. There is no one-to-one correspondence between MID’s militarized activity levels and the acts of state listed in the Definition of Aggression. However, any use of force at HiAct level 12 or higher constitutes an act of aggression, therefore a use of force, and each act enumerated in the Definition of Aggression is coded in the MID dataset as a militarized activity at HiAct level 12 or higher. Therefore any MID in which the HiAct is 12 or higher constitutes a “use of force” (see Brown, 2019a). “First” use of force A close approximation of first use of force is derivable from two MID variables: (1) the HiAct variable described above; and (2) the binary “Side A” variable, denoting whether or not the observed state (State 1 of the directed dyad) is on Side A (the side moving first, i.e. first militarizing the dispute). A state is a first user of force if either of the following is true: (1) it is on Side A of a MID initiated in the observed year, and it militarizes the dispute at HiAct level 12 or higher (it “uses” force); or (2) it is on Side B of a MID initiated that year, but Side A makes only a threat/show of force (at HiAct 11 or lower) and Side B responds by using force (at HiAct 12 or higher). In each directed dyadyear, the observed state (State 1) is coded as initiating an armed conflict in the first year that it meets either of the conditions just stated. The MID dataset codes conflict participants as “originators” of the conflict or “joiners.” Conflict variables used to derive first use of force are populated for joiners with the same values as for the conflict’s originators (following EUGene; Bennett and Stam, 2000), but with one exception: A joiner on the side of the initiator is deemed to initiate the armed conflict in the year that it joined (not the first year of the original conflict), and a joiner on the side of the target is deemed to have an armed conflict initiated against it in the year that it joined. This method preserves the principle of state responsibility, by assigning responsibility for armed conflict initiation to the original first user of force and all other states intervening or joining on its behalf—but not before they actually do so. The result is a dependent variable (DV) that codes initiation of any armed conflict by the observed state (State 1) in every directed dyad-year from 1946 through 2010. An alternative threshold: fatalities An occasionally voiced concern over using the MID dataset is that it is cluttered with too many trivial and/or irrelevant cases, obscuring the conflicts with which the field is most concerned: major wars, large-scale military operations short of war, and “close calls” which might have erupted into wars but did not. I do not share this concern. Any state’s use of force has the potential to escalate into a

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major world event, for the first use of force foreseeably provokes the other state into using force in response. No state seems likely to treat an intentional use of another state’s armed forces against it as a “trivial” matter, not even a border violation. Even the trivial cases matter when use of military force is involved. However, to avoid over-emphasizing low-level conflicts at the expense of highlevel ones, an alternative, higher threshold of armed conflict initiation is offered: initiation of an armed conflict in which there are any fatalities. This threshold already is grounded in the security studies literature (Ireland and Gartner, 2001; Souva and Prins, 2006; see also Sweeney, 2003). This approach successfully captures the mens rea of a highly revisionist state actor, in terms invoking religious sensitivities—the objective is so strongly desired that the state will take or sacrifice human life to obtain it. Deriving this variable is possible using the MID dataset’s “Fatal” variable: an ordered categorical variable of battle deaths ranging from 0 (none) to 6 (1000 or more). The MID must still reach the threshold of “use of force” described above, but the DV is triggered only when the MID results in any fatality, on either side.10

Independent variables: state-level religion Religious demographics Although religion is quantifiable in various ways, an essential variable is religious identity, i.e. alignment of individuals, groups, and entire nations with specific religions. Religion is a “fundamental marker of individual and group identity” (Stack, 2011: 28) and the linkage between religious identity and worldview is strong (Sandal and Fox, 2013: 13–4). While diverse religions share several commonalities by definition (e.g. promulgating behavioral standards and preparing adherents for the afterlife), their core beliefs and concepts generally are not mixed and matched. Religious beliefs come in “packages” of essential ethics and worldviews (including political). Variations and internal dissents do exist of course, but each religious identity is generally associated with a distinct set of political ethics and beliefs of fact, causation, and rectitude. For example, Catholics, Protestants, and Orthodox, despite their differences, all identify as “Christians” and thus share a core set of beliefs and attitudes that distinguish them from Muslims, Buddhists, etc. Thus religious demographics data captures a useful marker of a state’s (or rather, its population’s) cultural and normative identity. Data on religious demographics is taken from the Religious Characteristics of States-Demographics dataset (RCS-Dem), version 2.0.11 RCS-Dem estimates annually states’ populations and percentages of populations of 100 religious denominations for all states in the COW state system, from 2015 back to the year 1900 or earlier. It pools data from 24 listed sources plus many unlisted census reports obtained directly from governments. Estimates are interpolated between these “direct observations” and, where appropriate, extrapolated beyond them. For more detail on RCS-Dem’s sourcing and methods of construction, see the dataset’s article of record (Brown and James, 2018).

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The core RCS-Dem variables used in this book are the percentage of the state’s population that adheres to the tested religion and a binary variable denoting whether or not the tested religion is adhered to by the majority of the population.

Government Religious Preference (GRP) Introduction The subfield of religion and international relations/comparative politics (IR/CP) recently has witnessed a wave of data construction. Datasets on religious demographics are useful tools for measuring popular homogeneity and, more primordially, cultural characteristics and diversity. Datasets on religious fervor or “religiosity” (Finnish Social Science Data Archive, 2015; World Values Survey Association, 2017) enable more precise tests of religions’ actual popular influences, which otherwise must be assumed from variables capturing only religious identity. But these variables cannot measure directly religion’s influence on government. Popular religiosity or religious homogeneity does not necessarily translate to regime religiosity. A fervently religious population may have a secular government (United States) or a religious one (Iran); religiously homogenous publics can be very devout (Saudi Arabia) or not (Norway). A direct measurement of religion’s influence on state policy must capture policies of states themselves. The Government Religious Preference (GRP) dataset12 accomplishes this task. Inspired by the Religion and State (RAS) dataset (Fox, 2008), GRP quantifies state-religion policy, scaled from maximum disfavor against the observed religion to maximum favoritism toward it. A law or policy that is favorable toward a religion is evidence of that religion’s greater influence on the government’s preferences and decisions, whereas a law or policy seeking to control religion or is otherwise hostile toward it is evidence of religion’s lack of influence. This is a different approach from that of RAS and it changes significantly what is inferable from empirical measurement. By measuring religion-state entanglement, RAS measures simultaneously religion’s influence on government and government’s influence on religion. By measuring state favoritism, GRP isolates religion’s influence on government and measures only that. The GRP dataset covers 15 major world religions, plus Atheism. Within Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism, GRP covers the major first-level branches. Within the “Extended Protestant” branch of Christianity, GRP also covers the major second-level branches. The dataset also amalgamates several religions for convenience of statistical manipulation (see especially Chapter 6 for discussion of the “Buddhist Complex”). A hierarchy of religions is provided in Figure 3.1. The RCS-Demographics dataset is structured similarly (though it features many more denominations). GRP furnishes annual data for every independent state in the COW state system, from 2015 back to its independence or approximately 1800.13 For each

Research design and preliminary results

Western Christian (1100)

Catholic (1200)

49

Protestant (1400)

Extended Protestant (1300)

Anglican (1510)

Christian Syncretic (1900)

Orthodox (1600)

Pentecostal (1520)

Jewish (2100)

Sunni (3100)

Muslim (3000)

Shia (3200)

Zoroastrian (4100)

Ibadi (3310)

Christian (1000)

Baha’i (4300) Jain (4500) Sikh (4800)

Buddhist Complex (7900)

Hindu (5000)

Theravada (6100)

Buddhist (6000)

Mahayana (6200)

Shintoist (7100)

Tibetan (6300)

Confucianist (7300) Taoist (7500) Chinese Folk (7700) Indigenous (8000) Not Religious

Atheist (9100)

Figure 3.1 Hierarchy of religions.

denomination, a binary variable denotes whether it is the state’s “Preferred” religion (or one of them). GRP further measures 28 specific policy areas and combines them into five composite scores for each of five broad issue areas, and one super-composite score.

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“Preferred” and “Nonpreferred” Religions The culture of separation of religion and state, so strongly inculcated in American thought, tends to obscure the fact that virtually every state harbors some preference—strong or weak—for one or more religious denominations (even the United States). These preferences manifest most clearly in government office closures for religious holidays. For example, Christian countries celebrate Christmas and Muslim countries Eid al-Fitr as national holidays—and not merely for religionists but for the entire population. Each state is assigned a baseline Preferred religion, denoting which religion(s)’ holidays are celebrated as universal national holidays.14 A Preferred religion usually, though not always, enjoys greater governmental favoritism than any other. For each variable, the dataset reports a favoritism score for the “Preferred Religion(s)” in addition to a separate score for each denomination. These scores range from 0 (highly disfavored) to 4 (highly favored). If two or more Preferred religions have different scores, the “Preferred” religion score is the highest one. All other religions are designated Nonpreferred Religions and the “Nonpreferred Religion” GRP score is that of the unspecified, nondescript religion that does not enjoy Preferred status in that state. Nonpreferred Religions usually, but not always, receive less favorable treatment than Preferred religions. In strongly partisan states, Preferred religions’ scores tend to be significantly higher than those of Nonpreferred Religions. However, when states are indifferent or neutral toward religious denominations, Preferred and Nonpreferred Religions’ scores tend to be closer together. Not all of a state’s Nonpreferred Religions will have the same scores; some are treated better than others. Often the scores for individual religions with Nonpreferred status are the same as the Nonpreferred Religion score, but sometimes they are not the same. The use of these two variables, Preferred Religion and Nonpreferred Religion, enables easy differentiation between nondescript religions that are favored and nondescript religions that are not favored. Component-level composites and individual variables The flagship variable of the GRP dataset is the GRP composite score. The GRP composite is the average of non-missing scores in the five key component issue areas shown in Figure 3.2. There being no scholarly consensus on components’ most appropriate weighting, all are weighted equally (see Fox, 2011). Each denomination has its own GRP composite score, as do the Preferred and Nonpreferred Religions. In their original scales, GRP composites range from 0 (the state is most hostile toward the denomination) to 4 (most favorable toward it). Composite scores at these extremes are rare after 1945; from 1946 to 2010, the median Preferred GRP composite score is 2.329 out of 4 and the mean Nonpreferred GRP composite is 1.374. Scores may be rescaled at the user’s discretion; for this book, I have rescaled them from 0–4 to 0–10. As shown in Figure 3.2, each of the five components that combine to form the GRP composite is itself a composite of individual variables; the non-missing

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G10 – General Establishment G11 – National Establishment G12 – Religionist Legal System G13 – Public Office Qualifications

G1 – Official Status

G14 – Citizenship Qualifications G15 – Subnational Establishment G16 – International Relations G20 – Religious Education, General G21 – Religious Education, Detailed

G2 – Religious Education

G22 – Subnational Religious Education G30 – General Financial Support G31 – Discriminatory Financial Support G32 – Discriminatory Tax Exemptions

G3 – Financial Support

G33 – Levy of Religious Taxes/Tithes

GRP

G40 – General Religious Equality G41 – Religionist Persons G42 – Religionist-Owned Businesses G43 – Religionist Institutions

G4 – Regulatory Burdens

G44 – State Religious Governance G45 – Registration Requirements G46 – Blasphemy Laws G50 – General Free Exercise G51 – Public Religious Practice G52 – Citizens’ Religious Practice G53 – Criminal Penalties

G5 – Free Exercise

G54 – Social/Extra-Legal Sanctions G55 – Proselytizing Restrictions G56 – Converting Restrictions

Figure 3.2 GRP variables, composites, and supercomposite.

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scores for all individual variables within the component are averaged into a component-level composite score, just as the components’ scores are averaged into the GRP composite score. This methodology highlights the utility of collecting data on multiple variables to construct a composite score, in two ways. First, many of the individual variables have missing data, making it impossible otherwise to provide substantial coverage of any state for any extended time period. Second, different dimensions of state-level religious partisanship may be in conflict, with an unfavorable disposition in one issue area undermining a more favorable disposition toward the same religion in another. Only composite variables can account for that situation. Information on the 28 religion policy areas, from which the composite scores are drawn, is pooled from many primary and secondary sources: constitutions and other primary documents, almanacs, encyclopedias, annual reports, and datasets. Care was taken to include several denomination-specific sources favoring a range of religions, including Catholicism, Protestantism, Judaism, and Islam. More details on the sources, methodology, and construction of the GRP dataset can be found the dataset’s codebook (Brown, 2018).

Control variables Other non-individual characteristics theorized to influence states’ propensities to armed conflict are classifiable essentially into the following categories: power, regime type, alliances, economics, proximity, regional effects, and time. Power No study of war’s causes is complete without accounting for power. A state must have the absolute power to mount military operations, i.e. produce or procure steel and energy, recruit troops, and equip and mobilize them. The greater the state’s ability to accomplish these things, the greater the range of military actions it can undertake (e.g. Bremer, 1980). States’ power is measured using the Composite Index of National Capability (Singer, Bremer, and Stuckey, 1972; Correlates of War Project, 2017b), which combines component-level indices of military personnel, military expenditures, energy production, iron and steel production, urban population, and total population. The raw combined score, the Composite Index of National Capability (CINC), is a fraction of the combined capability of all states (a state with a greater share of combined global military capability has a greater absolute military capability). This study controls for absolute power of State 1 (the observed state) using the natural logarithm of CINC score.15 Realism also holds that relative power is a key determinant of states’ preferences and outcomes of interaction. This is true both for Classical Realism (Morgenthau, 2006) and Structural or Neorealism (Waltz, 1979). However, actual effects of power differential on armed conflict initiation, cf. occurrence, are disputed. Which state is more likely to attack the other: the one

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with greater power or less power? In power transition theory, rising challenger is predicted to attack the hegemon upon achieving power parity (Organski and Kugler, 1981), but in dynamic differentials theory, a declining hegemon will attack a rising challenger while still at power preponderance (Copeland, 2000). Jervis (2009) argues that power preponderance makes a unipole more revisionist, but Walt (2009) and Mastanduno (2009) suggest that hard power preponderance may actually induce soft power balancing behavior, which restrains the unipole. Either way, the foregoing theories are sufficient justification to control for two additional traits: (1) absolute power of State 2 of the dyad, measured the same way as State 1’s power; and (2) directed relative power, measured as the logarithm of the directed ratio of the CINC score of State 1 to that of State 2 (see Russett and Oneal, 2001: 103). Regime type Democracies are theorized to refrain from warring against each other. The dyadic democratic peace has been tested and confirmed many times (e.g. Doyle, 1983; Russett, 1993; Russett and Oneal, 2001). This supposition, going all the way back to Kant (1991), is that true, strong democracies never fight each other. Jack Levy (1989a) has characterized this thesis as being the closest thing to an empirical law in the study of political science. Much of the early democratic peace literature focused primarily on the dyadic thesis; but Doyle (1986) asserts that most wars by liberal states are defensive (implying their precipitation by autocracies). Most arguments favoring the monadic thesis flow from structural constraints. Kant (1991) originally conjectured that a democracy’s need for popular consent constrains its warmaking apparati, reducing the probability of two democracies fighting. Rummel (1994: 1) argues that the greater a government’s power over the people, the greater its ability to act “arbitrarily according to the whims and desires of the elite.” But democracies are also constrained by culture. The concept of majority rule with minority rights makes democracies more likely to resolve disputes through peaceful processes, even if they lose (Russett, 1993). Put another way, greater respect for one’s own people engenders greater respect for other states’ peoples.16 The cultural explanation is rooted in ideology—democracies believe they should not fight other democracies, therefore they do not (Owen, 1994, 1997). Although Owen’s work speaks directly to the dyadic thesis, an ideology that delegitimizes first use of force may be observable in the monadic thesis as well. Democracies are found to be less likely to initiate crises, because leaders socialized within democracies are more likely to employ non-violent means of dispute resolution than leaders socialized within autocracies (Rousseau et al., 1996).17 Rummel (1994) even implies that democracies overall are squeamish about killing their own people (e.g. for crimes) whereas totalitarian governments harbor no such compunctions.18 However, in contrast to consistently robust measurements of the

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dyadic democratic peace, empirical tests of the monadic democratic peace have yielded mixed results. This study controls for both monadic and dyadic democracy. States’ regime types are measured using non-missing Polity scores, which range from 210 for strongly autocratic to 110 for strongly democratic (Center for Systemic Peace, 2013). The dyadic democratic peace is measured by the lower Polity score of the two states in the dyad. Alliances Effects of alliances on armed conflict occurrence are uncertain. Cashman (1993: 245) conjectures that alliances increase global polarization by focusing greater attention on divisive issues than uniting ones. If true, then allied in-group states’ ties are strengthened but their hostilities to out-group states are exacerbated (Mercer, 1995). On the other hand, alliances generate more issue areas between states, thus more disputes with potential to erupt into armed conflict. We resolve this tension by embracing two premises: (1) states treat other states according to the meaning that other states have for them—a fundamental premise of constructivist IR theory (Wendt, 1992); and (2) states overall want to comply with their agreements (Chayes and Chayes, 1995). Applied to alliances, we should expect states to refrain from attacking other states that have pledged: (1) to aid their defense against third-party attack, and (2) their neutrality in case of armed conflicts with third states. We also should expect states to honor specific nonaggression pacts, beyond the general nonaggression pact implied in Article 2(4) of the Charter, and further to refrain from attacking other states with whom they have understandings of joint consultations in crises (ententes). All alliance variables are directed and binary. Data are obtained from the Formal Alliances dataset of the Correlates of War project (Gibler, 2009) and updated manually to reflect NATO’s enlargement. Economics The theory that absolute power increases a state’s propensity toward armed conflict has a corollary, based on Haas’s (1980) finding of a relationship between wealth and conflict involvement. Wealth too enables military adventurism. However, State 2’s absolute wealth, treated independently from its power, is not predicted to influence State 1’s decision-making. The same is true for relative wealth. Therefore, we control for the absolute wealth of State 1 only. Wealth is measured by the natural logarithm of the state’s GDP in constant US dollars. Data are obtained from the Maddison Project via Quality of Government project (Teorell et al., 2013). Kant theorized that in addition to “republican form[s] of government,” strong trading relationships would suppress interstate armed conflict. This theory also is grounded in more modern IR literature (Mueller, 1989: 219; Copeland, 1996), and Russett and Oneal (2001: 140) find empirical support for it. However, annual

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trading data are significantly more limited than data on other control variables and adding trade dependence to the models reduces the observations by over two-thirds and occasionally even three-fourths. Although many empirical results presented in this book do not hold when economic dependence variables are added,19 those results are based on so few observations compared to other models that their validity is doubtful. Proximity The positive effects of proximity and negative effects of distance on a dyad’s likelihood to experience armed conflict are well established (Starr and Most, 1976; Diehl, 1985; Starr, 2005). Proximity is controlled using Correlates of War contiguity scores (Stinnett et al., 2002; Correlates of War Project, 2006), in which the lowest score is land contiguity and higher scores denote greater tiers of water distance. For the most accurate results, the closer of the dyad’s direct or colonial contiguity scores (Correlates of War Project, 2002) is used. Post-2006 data were added manually. Regional effects Different regions are prone to armed conflict in different ways. Some religions tested in this book are dominant in states only in a single region. Conversely, some regions’ states overwhelmingly have the same dominant religion. For these reasons, it is prudent to control for intra-regional effects, to isolate effects of the tested religion from other geopolitical effects endemic to a particular region. We control for states’ joint membership in five demarcated regions: Americas, Europe, Africa, Middle East, and Asia-Pacific.20 Time Cederman (2001) shows that the dyadic democratic peace partly is attributable to the “learning process” of pacific relations, which democratic dyads learn quickly but which non-democratic and mixed dyads can learn also. The longer a dyad is at peace, the less likely it goes to war. This effect is controlled through the number of years since the dyad’s last MID. A binary variable denoting whether the dyad is in a MID is derived from the MID dataset (from which the DV is also derived). From there, the number of years since the MID’s conclusion and cubic splines are generated using Stata’s btscs command (Beck, Katz, and Tucker, 1998).

Two types of models: rule of three and kitchen sink An enduring point of contention in IR empirical methods is whether to control for many variables or few. In an effort to accommodate both sides, all regressions are run using two alternative but (I contend) complementary models.

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In the first models (“the A models”), we follow the Rule of 3 and control only for the three variables that are most likely to influence the DV, but which the independent variable (IV) is also most likely to influence (see Ray, 2003, 2005; Kadera and Mitchell, 2004). The first of these is regime type. Official state religion has been associated with reduced freedom (Kettell, 2013), and it is asserted that religion and democratic toleration for dissent coexist with difficulty (Fox, 2013: 49). Other works show relationships between regime type and specific religions (e.g. Brown, 2016a), especially between Islam and authoritarianism (Khadduri, 1955; Midlarsky, 1998; Kelsay, 2002; Fish, 2002; but see Fox, 2013: 48–51). The second variable is wealth. Several studies link religious freedom to economic prosperity (Grim, Clark, and Snyder, 2014; Gill and Owen, 2017). Others, inspired by or even following Weber’s Protestant work ethic (Weber, 1958b; see also Sandal and Fox, 2013: 111), connect specific religions with greater economic development (e.g. Stark, 2005; Barro and McCleary, 2003: 773). The third variable is proximity. Patterns of cultural diffusion often result in contiguous states being of the same religion. Religion diffuses not only through direct proselytizing and converting but also through migration patterns. Through these and other phenomena, religions spread internationally but most strongly to nearby countries. This is why religions tend to cluster in regions. In contrast, it is unusual for a compact, contiguous block of average-to-small countries to each be of a different religion. Religious similarity between countries reduces their conflict proneness and that effect could confound the conventional wisdom that proximity breeds conflict (see, e.g. empirical results of Henderson, 1997: 663). Thus the “A” models control only for the dyadic democratic peace, absolute wealth, and proximity—three variables predicted to influence propensity to initiate interstate armed conflict, that also are influenced by religion. Alternatively, we offer a “Kitchen Sink” approach. In the “B” models, all statelevel conflict outbreak factors with theoretical grounding are added as controls, whether they are predicted to be statistically significant or not (see Oneal and Russett, 2005). Indeed, many of them are not. However, maximizing control variables (within reason—see the discussion above on trade dependence) does raise significantly the models’ explanatory power, as evidenced by the B models’ R-squared values being uniformly greater than those of the A models. Readers can observe this for themselves in the tables that follow. Adding many more controls also weakens the independent variables’ coefficients in most models (except those measuring Islam, of which the coefficient is often strengthened). This suggests that religions’ relationships to first use of force in the A models are likely overstated due to omitted variable bias.

Preliminary results Overview Overall, we find that religion does have a correlation to first use of force that is as strong as or stronger than several conventional explanatory variables. We further

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find that different individual religions are differently correlated. Islam is found overall to be positively correlated with states’ propensities to armed conflict and Christianity negatively correlated. Buddhism is found to be not correlated. In presenting preliminary results, we begin with measurements of religious demographics, i.e. religious identities of states’ populations. We then proceed to religion’s influence on policies and preferences of states’ governing regimes, through those regimes’ favoritism toward or disfavor against religion (the GRP composite score). After that, we measure influence of three specified religions: Islam, Christianity, and Buddhism. The rationale for singling out those three religions is evident in Table 3.1, which shows the number of state-years between 1946 and 2010 in which the major world religions are dominant—in both population and regime preference. Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism combined are dominant in 82.2% of state-years by population and 73.5% by Preferred religion (not counting mixed majorities/ Preferences). Testing every religion for which data have been collected would be unduly cumbersome and results would be of questionable validity. Many major world religions are dominant in very few states or none at all. For example, the practices of Jewish states are driven entirely by a single state: Israel. We

Table 3.1 State-years in which specified religion is dominant (1946–2010). Religion

Majority of population

Preferred religion

Christian Muslim Buddhist Hindu Chinese Religious Complex Chinese Folk Confucianist Japanese Religious Complex Jewish Zoroastrian Bahai Jain Sikh Shinto Taoist Indigenous Christian syncretic Neoreligion Not religious (incl. atheist) Mixed Total

9411 3186 490 150 115 79 0 Not measured 63 0 0 0 0 0 0 544 65 0 305 1519 15,927

5442 1395 362 129 62 0 73 65 63 0 0 0 0

55.6% 14.2% 3.7% 1.3% .6% 0% .7% .7% .6% 0% 0% 0% 0%

0 0 0 6 379 1820 9796

0% 0% 0% .1% 3.9% 18.6% 100%

59.1% 20.0% 3.1% .9% .7% .5% 0% .4% 0% 0% 0% 0% 0% 0% 3.4% .4% 0% 1.9% 9.5% 100%

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encounter similar problems for Ibadi Islam, Hinduism, the Chinese and Japanese Religious Complexes, and, to a lesser extent, Shia Islam. Their effects are not easily isolated from those of the other domestic and geopolitical features of the states in which they are dominant; thus, any behavioral patterns uncovered from measuring them cannot be generalized to the larger community of states. Zoroastrianism, Bahai, Jainism, and Sikhism are not dominant in any states. Other religious categories are too diverse and decentralized for measurements to be meaningful. Christian Syncretism, Indigenous Ethnoreligion, and Neoreligion fall into this category. Religionist populations In this section, we measure relationships of propensity to initiate interstate armed conflicts with the religious identity of states’ populations. Table 3.2 shows relationships to binary variables denoting whether the state’s population is majority Christian, Muslim, or Buddhist, respectively. A majority Christian state is significantly less likely to use force, but only when controlling for the three factors influencing use of force that religion also influences. This result suggests that in addition to influencing states’ decisions to refrain from using force directly, popular Christianity also is empirically related to one or more (possibly many) other factors influencing restraint. These relationships may be spurious. In contrast, a majority Muslim country is significantly more likely to use force, even after controlling away the multitude of other conflict influencers. Assuming these results not to be spurious, they suggest that Islam’s power to influence statecraft by instilling cultural standards of behavior is real. While not all Muslims should be assumed to harbor militant preferences, those preferences on the street in predominantly Muslim countries must be taken seriously. A majority Buddhist country is no more or less likely to use force, regardless of model. This could suggest either that the Buddhist war ethic, as inculcated in predominantly Buddhist cultures, is actually relatively indifferent toward causes of war, or that ad bellum norms in Buddhist cultures do not influence preferences of their governments. Regressions were run on Buddhist Complex majority also (see Brown and James, 2018: 1353) but those relationships were not significant either (and are not reported). Next we test relationships to percentage of religionists in the state’s population. Doing so will reveal whether, for example, states with greater shares of Christians or Muslims are less or more likely to use force. Table 3.3 reports results of regressions on percentages of Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists, respectively, in states’ populations. For easier comparison with GRP, the percentage variable is rescaled to units of 10 (from 100). Results overall support the preliminary findings of relationships to religionist majorities. The correlations with Christianity in the A models (the Rule of 3 models) are still negative and significant. The correlations with Christianity in the B models are much weaker, and although Christianity’s negative relationship is significant in the model with the lower threshold of force triggering the DV

Research design and preliminary results

59

(Model 1B), it is not significant in the model with the higher threshold (Model 2B). Percentage of Muslim population is correlated with the state’s use of force, positively and significantly in all four models. The relationship is slightly stronger in the models containing more controls. Percentage of Buddhist population is not correlated with use of force in any model and neither is percentage of Buddhist Complex population in unreported tests. The next step is to test relationships with binary religionist majority interacted with religionist percentage of population. We already have results suggesting—albeit not conclusively—that majority Christian countries are less likely to resort to force and that the greater the population’s share of Christians, the less likely the state uses force. We further have results suggesting with greater confidence that majority Muslim states are more likely to use force and the greater the Muslim percentage, the greater the likelihood. Table 3.4, reporting regressions on religionist percentages in religionist-majority countries, offers answers to whether Christian, Muslim, and Buddhist homogeneity, respectively, are factors. Results suggest that Christian homogeneity is a constraining factor, but only when controls are limited. In the full models, Christian homogeneity has no significant relationship. Results of testing Muslim homogeneity continue to support the trend of Islam’s positive relationship to interstate armed conflict; all coefficients continue to be significant in all models. Buddhist homogeneity is not significant in any model, nor is Buddhist Complex homogeneity in unreported tests. The preceding models all test religions singly. In doing so, they compare relationships of XReligionist populations only with non-XReligionist populations. As a robustness check, all models were rerun to include Christian, Muslim, and Buddhist variables simultaneously. In unreported results of all three variable types (majority, percentage, majority-percentage), Christianity’s negative relationship was significant in the A models but not B models. This is consistent with results of regressing on Christianity singly. Islam’s positive relationship was significant in the B models but not A models. In one sense this result is narrower than those in which Islam is significant in all models, but in another sense it strengthens the argument that the relationship of Christian populations to first use of force is spurious but that of Muslim populations is real. The Buddhist variables remain insignificant. Government Religious Preference As explained earlier in this chapter, a more direct test of religion’s influence on states’ preferences and decisions is that which measures religion’s influence on states’ governments. We therefore turn to GRP as the independent variable of interest. We begin with non-denomination-specific religion. Hassner (2009) argues that religion impedes conflict resolution through bargaining by creating issue indivisibilities and Henne (2012) links state-level religious entanglement, measured as Government Involvement in Religion (see Fox, 2008), with states’ conflict proneness. Together, these works suggest that the greater a government’s partisanship—for any religion—the greater its propensity for first use of force. There is precedent for this phenomenon in all religions; radical Islam has been most

Table 3.2 RELogit regression on religionist majority population (binary), clustered by directed dyad.

Christian majority?

Christianity

Christianity

Christianity

Christianity

Islam

Islam

Islam

Islam

Buddhism

Buddhism

Buddhism

Buddhism

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.5653 (.1212)***

2.2054 (.1186)

2.6549 (.1885)**

2.0577 (.1841) .4953 (.1289)***

.4838 (.1353)***

.4699 (.2043)*

.5298 (.2379)*

Muslim majority?

.1239 (.3641) 2.0837 (.3852)

Buddhist majority?

.3612 (.3533) .1948 (.4251)

Log CINC State 1

.3660 (.1213)**

.8877 (.1939)***

.4739 (.1210)***

.9935 (.1769)***

.3677 (.1168)**

.8989 (.1900)***

Log CINC State 2

.4865 (.0934)***

.2544 (.1509)

.4453 (.0929)***

.2503 (.1434)

.4757 (.0918)***

.2549 (.1446)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0676 (.0500)

2.1774 (.0781)*

2.0849 (.0505)

2.1810 (.0789)*

2.0756 (.0499)

2.1778 (.0776)*

Low polity score 2.0637 of dyad (.0098)***

2.0323 (.0113)**

Polity score State 1

2.0251 (.0086)**

2.0099 (.0115)

2.0192 (.0088)*

2.0017 (.0117)

2.0276 (.0084)**

2.0114 (.0111)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.1090 (.1522)

2.1900 (.2998)

.0897 (.1439)

2.2026 (.2798)

.1121 (.1502)

2.1839 (.2921)

2.0770 (.0176)***

2.0450 (.0202)*

2.0707 (.0095)***

2.0339 (.0112)**

2.0878 (.0171)***

2.0493 (.0196)*

2.0784 (.0089)***

2.0312 (.0112)**

2.0943 (.0149)***

2.0444 (.0198)*

Entente (2→1)?

.0914 (.2944)

.3301 (.5720)

.0144 (.3004)

.1196 (.5995)

.0746 (.2906)

.2525 (.5723)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7577 (.2463)**

1.0017 (.3896)*

.7555 (.2454)**

.9990 (.3884)*

.7345 (.2458)**

.9777 (.3872)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8603 (.2689)**

2.9628 (.6420)

2.8395 (.2784)**

2.8158 (.6471)

2.8479 (.2651)**

2.8888 (.6342)

Log GDP State 1 .2629 (.0282)***

.2078 (.0434)***

.2092 (.0377)***

2.0050 (.0592)

.2780 (.0297)***

.1843 (.0435)***

.2192 (.0395)***

2.0299 (.0608)

.2548 (.0283)***

.2066 (.0427)***

.1994 (.0386)***

2.0066 (.0580)

Closest contiguity score (15land)

2.8164 (.0212)***

2.5589 (.0284)***

2.8283 (.0311)***

2.5337 (.0404)***

2.8203 (.0211)***

2.5609 (.0280)***

2.8308 (.0307)***

2.5318 (.0398)***

2.8247 (.0216)***

2.5542 (.0284)***

2.8395 (.0314)***

2.5333 (.0400)***

American dyad?

1.5538 (.2087)***

1.1269 (.3550)**

1.6685 (.2070)***

1.2894 (.3679)***

1.4840 (.2191)***

1.1353 (.3656)**

European dyad?

.2762 (.1971)

.7026 (.3016)*

.3353 (.1951)

.8478 (.2902)**

.2045 (.1980)

.6991 (.3092)*

African dyad?

.8211 (.1644)***

.9156 (.2343)***

.8267 (.1586)***

.9292 (.2297)***

.8440 (.1604)***

.9304 (.2346)***

Middle East dyad?

1.3856 (.2111)***

1.8323 (.3070)***

1.2633 (.2116)***

1.6534 (.3091)***

1.4851 (.1973)***

1.8717 (.2807)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.2527 (.2111)

.5992 (.3072)

.4064 (.1893)*

.6845 (.2763)*

.3924 (.1861)*

.5875 (.3070)

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.2919 (.0198)***

2.3059 (.0321)***

2.2902 (.0196)***

2.2995 (.0317)***

2.2893 (.0195)***

2.3019 (.0318)***

Constant

24.9669 (.3344)***

24.4348 (.4426)***

25.3544 (.4658)***

23.6210 (.5830)***

25.4926 (.3615)***

24.5103 (.4337)***

25.8301 (.4796)***

23.7094 (.5754)***

25.0237 (.3298)***

24.5098 (.4386)***

25.4160 (.4692)***

23.6461 (.5747)***

Observations

1,001,719

1,001,719

1,001,719

1,001,719

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,012,739

1,012,739

1,012,739

1,012,739

Clusters

24,838

24,838

24,838

24,838

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,877

24,877

24,877

24,877

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a

2056.59

4298.11

1315.43

2218.46

2102.70

4340.99

1269.82

2229.24

2153.20

4322.50

1279.11

2252.72

Pseudo-Rsquareda

.2360

.3227

.2150

.3084

.2366

.3247

.2129

.3099

.2323

.3234

.2109

.3088

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

Table 3.3 RELogit regression on religionist percentage of population, clustered by directed dyad.

Christian percentage (every 10%)

Christianity

Christianity

Christianity

Christianity

Islam

Islam

Islam

Islam

Buddhism

Buddhism

Buddhism

Buddhism

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.0813 (.0160)***

2.0346 (.0172)*

2.0994 (.0250)***

2.0175 (.0274) .0609 (.0153)***

.0613 (.0169)***

.0570 (.0240)*

.0636 (.0311)*

Muslim percentage (every 10%)

.0253 (.0449) 2.0123 (.0517)

Buddhist percentage (every 10%)

.0582 (.0457) .0285 (.0640)

Log CINC State 1

.3580 (.1207)**

.8787 (.1894)***

.4902 (.1222)***

1.0069 (.1774)***

.3682 (.1177)**

.8976 (.1913)***

Log CINC State 2

.4758 (.0922)***

.2551 (.1444)

.4443 (.0930)***

.2512 (.1426)

.4752 (.0915)***

.2563 (.1430)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0757 (.0502)

2.1783 (.0777)*

2.0865 (.0507)

.1821 (.0788)*

2.0757 (.0499)

2.1777 (.0776)*

Low polity score 2.0610 of dyad (.0097)***

2.0327 (.0113)**

Polity score State 1

2.0239 (.0087)**

2.0090 (.0116)

2.0191 (.0089)*

2.0025 (.0118)

2.0277 (.0084)**

2.0109 (.0111)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.1041 (.1471)

2.1853 (.2873)

.0866 (.1429)

2.2016 (.2771)

.1120 (.1501)

2.1842 (.2923)

2.0724 (.0178)***

2.0457 (.0201)*

2.0694 (.0097)***

2.0337 (.0112)**

2.0866 (.0174)***

2.0489 (.0197)*

2.0781 (.0089)***

2.0311 (.0112)**

2.0938 (.0147)***

2.0446 (.0199)*

Entente (2→1)?

.0801 (.2897)

.2527 (.5713)

.0251 (.2947)

.1341 (.5917)

.0745 (.2904)

.2532 (.5735)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7262 (.2430)**

.9724 (.3891)*

.7499 (.2434)**

.9930 (.3862)*

.7349 (.2457)**

.9769 (.3852)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8413 (.2659)**

2.8906 (.6337)

2.8429 (.2726)**

2.8224 (.6370)

2.8487 (.2644)**

2.8868 (.6324)

Log GDP State 1 .2541 (.0280)***

.2105 (.0432)***

.1989 (.0374)***

2.0034 (.0593)

.2820 (.0300)***

.1815 (.0435)***

.2224 (.0398)***

2.0321 (.0613)

.2534 (.0286)***

.2069 (.0427)***

.1959 (.0384)***

2.0073 (.0578)

Closest contiguity score (15land)

2.8167 (.0210)***

2.5562 (.0284)***

2.8284 (.0308)***

2.5340 (.0403)***

2.8192 (.0211)***

2.5604 (.0279)***

2.8299 (.0305)***

2.5314 (.0398)***

2.8249 (.0215)***

2.5542 (.0284)***

.8396 (.0313)***

2.5333 (.0400)***

American dyad?

1.6215 (.2067)***

1.1955 (.3508)**

1.7066 (.2063)***

1.3146 (.3684)***

1.4832 (.2193)***

1.1370 (.3659)**

European dyad?

.2940 (.1957)

.7263 (.2982)*

.3578 (.1945)

.8598 (.2881)**

.2036 (.1983)

.7013 (.3114)*

African dyad?

.8331 (.1630)***

.9122 (.2336)***

.8124 (.1575)***

.9175 (.2286)***

.8423 (.1603)***

.9341 (.2373)***

Middle East dyad?

1.3600 (.2171)***

1.7942 (.3230)***

1.2092 (.2143)***

1.6063 (.3276)***

1.4834 (.1971)***

1.8754 (.2833)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.2545 (.2071)

.5634 (.3022)

.4178 (.1894)*

.6877 (.2781)*

.3979 (.1914)*

.5754 (.3238)

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.2888 (.0195)***

2.3024 (.0318)***

2.2903 (.0196)***

2.2999 (.0318)***

2.2893 (.0195)***

2.3018 (.0319)***

Constant

24.8033 (.3359)***

24.4259 (.4408)***

25.1591 (.4691)***

23.5975 (.5829)***

25.5870 (.3699)***

24.5375 (.4353)***

25.9104 (.4871)***

23.7262 (.5791)***

25.0147 (.3329)

24.5094 (.4386)***

25.3917 (.4674)***

23.6467 (.5746)***

Observations

1,015,624

1,015,624

1,015,624

1,015,624

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,012,739

1,012,739

1,012,739

1,012,739

Clusters

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,877

24,877

24,877

24,877

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a

2109.83

4388.72

1342.71

2269.31

2113.79

4332.55

1276.31

2215.35

2136.39

4322.53

1276.59

2253.65

Pseudo-Rsquareda

.2377

.3239

.2176

.3088

.2370

.3249

.2132

.3098

.2324

.3234

.2111

.3088

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

Table 3.4 RELogit regression on religionist majority percentage of population, clustered by directed dyad.

Christian majority* percentage (every 10%)

Christianity

Christianity

Christianity

Christianity

Islam

Islam

Islam

Islam

Buddhism

Buddhism

Buddhism

Buddhism

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.0683 (.0144)***

2.0256 (.0146)

2.0830 (.0220)***

2.0092 (.0227)

.0583 (.0143)***

.0575 (.0153)***

.0552 (.0227)*

.0625 (.0276)*

Muslim majority* percentage (every 10%)

.0223 (.0467) 2.0002 (.0482)

Buddhist majority* percentage (every 10%)

.0605 (.0454) .0483 (.0548)

Log CINC State 1

.3593 (.1216)**

.8856 (.1944)***

.4839 (.1210)***

1.0047 (.1763)***

.3731 (.1164)**

.9184 (.1901)***

Log CINC State 2

.4874 (.0935)***

.2547 (.1509)

.4414 (.0930)***

.2461 (.1425)

.4760 (.0913)***

.2589 (.1435)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0665 (.0499)

2.1772 (.0782)*

2.0865 (.0506)

2.1827 (.0789)*

2.0755 (.0498)

2.1773 (.0774)*

Low polity score 2.0638 of dyad (.0096)***

2.0326 (.0113)**

Polity score State 1

2.0250 (.0087)**

2.0097 (.0116)

2.0184 (.0089)*

2.0010 (.0119)

2.0278 (.0084)**

2.0119 (.0111)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.1094 (.1519)

2.1902 (.2990)

.0924 (.1427)

2.1981 (.2775)

.1122 (.1502)

2.1839 (.2934)

Entente (2→1)?

.0960 (.2951)

.3321 (.5729)

.0058 (.2969)

.1116 (.5960)

.0742 (.2916)

.2519 (.5780)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7556 (.2468)**

1.0009 (.3895)*

.7564 (.2448)**

1.0005 (.3876)*

.7338 (.2459)**

.9685 (.3830)*

2.0762 (.0174)***

2.0452 (.0203)*

2.0695 (.0095)***

2.0335 (.0112)**

2.0865 (.0172)***

2.0489 (.0197)*

2.0783 (.0089)

2.0310 (.0112)**

2.0942 (.0149)***

2.0441 (.0199)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8623 (.2699)**

Log GDP State 1 .2630 (.0281)***

.2086 (.0436)***

.2104 (.0375)***

2.0046 (.0593)

.2774 (.0298)***

.1805 (.0435)***

.2183 (.0397)***

2.0343 (.0612)

.2549 (.0283)***

.2060 (.0426)***

.1994 (.0386)***

2.0093 (.0575)

2.8169 (.0212)***

2.5597 (.0285)***

2.8284 (.0312)***

2.5340 (.0405)***

2.8197 (.0211)***

2.5604 (.0279)***

2.8303 (.0306)***

2.5318 (.0397)***

2.8248 (.0215)***

2.5544 (.0283)***

2.8396 (.0313)***

2.5329 (.0399)***

Closest Contiguity Score (15land)

2.9636 (.6428)

2.8395 (.2746)**

2.8167 (.6402)

2.8463 (.2661)**

2.8833 (.6404)

American dyad?

1.5636 (.2061)***

1.1373 (.3532)**

1.6860 (.2050)***

1.3016 (.3660)***

1.4864 (.2194)***

1.1425 (.3664)**

European dyad?

.2774 (.1973)

.7092 (.3023)*

.3502 (.1946)

.8613 (.2895)**

.2080 (.1982)

.7112 (.3103)*

African dyad?

.8081 (.1663)***

.9097 (.2374)***

.8362 (.1569)***

.9377 (.2274)***

.8478 (.1604)***

.9476 (.2363)***

Middle East dyad?

1.3776 (.2139)***

1.8224 (.3099)***

1.2339 (.2148)***

1.6208 (.3185)***

1.4883 (.1972)***

1.8881 (.2825)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.2517 (.2112)

.5916 (.3070)

.4218 (.1890)*

.6969 (.2771)*

.3748 (.1869)*

.5470 (.3084)

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.2922 (.0198)***

2.3060 (.0321)***

2.2899 (.0196)***

2.2992 (.0317)***

2.2890 (.0195)***

2.3011 (.0318)***

Constant

24.9660 (.3314)***

24.4340 (.4426)***

25.3606 (.4615)***

23.6172 (.5822)***

25.5038 (.3621)***

24.4957 (.4340)***

25.8371 (.4798)***

23.6871 (.5788)***

25.0265 (.3300)***

24.5078 (.4382)***

25.4228 (.4703)***

23.6448 (.5739)***

Observations

1,001,719

1,001,719

1,001,719

1,001,719

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,007,282

1,012,739

1,012,739

1,012,739

1,012,739

Clusters

24,838

24,838

24,838

24,838

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,877

24,877

24,877

24,877

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a

2060.81

4322.63

1313.51

2230.50

2110.06

4316.37

1272.38

2220.09

2148.06

4325.32

1275.22

2255.39

Pseudo-Rsquareda

.2361

.3227

.2156

.3084

.2371

.3249

.2133

.3102

.2323

.3234

.2111

.3090

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

66

Research design and preliminary results

notable for violent extremism (e.g. Bin Laden, 1996, 1998), but there has been violence also by Hindu and Buddhist extremists (Banerjee, 1999; Shani, 2007; Cady, 2006; Tambiah, 1992; Obeyesekere, 2006: 134–7; Schmidt-Leukel, 2004b) and Christian extremists (e.g. the 2011 Oslo attack; Erlanger and Shane, 2011). This hypothesis is tested by regressing armed conflict initiation on the state’s Preferred GRP composite score, i.e. the GRP composite for whatever the state’s Preferred religion is.21 Table 3.5 reports regressions on Preferred GRP. All GRP scores for this book are scaled from 0 to 10. The relationship of first use of force to Preferred GRP is positive and significant in three of the four models. The IV’s coefficient is considerably stronger in the B models (all controls included). Results of Model 2B indicate that religious partisanship is positively correlated to initiating an interstate armed conflict with fatalities, suggesting at least that religious extremism is a catalyst for deadly political violence. Interestingly, though, Preferred GRP’s relationship is stronger at the lower threshold of interstate armed conflict (Model 1). This suggests that religion’s ability to exacerbate conflict by inhibiting settlement, a` la Hassner, is real. It also suggests that although religious extremism can and does support deadly violence, the regard for human life that is common to all religions may be tempering effects of the most militant extremism. But for that tempering, religiously based violence at the state-level might be much worse. Next we test relationships to the identity of states’ Preferred religions. Table 3.6 reports regressions on binary variables denoting whether the state has a Christian, Muslim, or Buddhist Preference, respectively. States with mixed Preferences are coded for each denomination, e.g. a mixed Christian-Muslim Preferred state would be coded “1” for binary Christian Preference and “1” for binary Muslim Preference. Christian Preference (binary) is negatively correlated with states’ propensities to use force and is significant in three out of the four models. However, its coefficient is much weaker in the B models (including all controls) and not significant in Model 2B (initiation of deadly, cf. any, armed conflict). This result suggests that Christianity’s influence on states’ armed conflict preferences is constraining overall, but not in cases in which the state deems it necessary to resort to deadly force to achieve its objective. The positive relationship of Muslim Preference (binary) is similarly limited to the lower threshold of interstate armed conflict. Muslim Preference is not significantly correlated to states’ first use of deadly force. Whether its positive correlation to first use of any force is significant or not is a matter of interpretation. Muslim Preference is significant in the A model (three controls only). In the B model (all controls), its p-value is 0.053, which is only barely outside the 95% confidence interval. These results suggest the possibility that whereas Christian Preference is constraining overall, Muslim Preference is enabling overall. However, Islam’s positive correlation is weaker than Christianity’s negative correlation. Buddhist Preference is found to have no significant relationship to states’ first use of force.22 Whereas the previous table provides insight on relationships to states’ government-level religious identities, the next table explores relationships to the degree of favoritism toward those religious identities. Table 3.7 reports regressions

Table 3.5 RELogit regression on adjusted Preferred Religion GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

Adjusted Preferred GRP (0–10)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0648 (.0300)*

.1566 (.0290)***

.0079 (.0418)

Log CINC State 1

.6681 (.1186)***

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict) .1106 (.0529)* 1.1082 (.1742)*

Log CINC State 2

.4734 (.0931)***

.2273 (.1461)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0802 (.0500)

2.1899 (.0787)*

Low polity score of dyad

2.0793 (.0088)***

2.0281 (.0113)*

2.0949 (.0147)***

2.0332 (.0086)***

Polity score State 1

2.0427 (.0202)* 2.0140 (.0112)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.1526 (.1391)

2.1395 (.2828)

Entente (2→1)?

2.0623 (.2908)

.1638 (.5793)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7514 (.2348)**

.9850 (.3801)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8420 (.2558)**

2.8959 (.6117)

Log GDP State 1

.2695 (.0288)***

.1518 (.0425)***

.2011 (.0369)***

2.0461 (.0593)

Closest contiguity score (15land)

2.8268 (.0213)***

2.5505 (.0279)***

2.8396 (.0320)***

2.5301 (.0395)***

American dyad?

1.6508 (.2211)***

1.2083 (.3703)**

European dyad?

.3435 (.1976)

.7746 (.3062)*

African dyad?

.9363 (.1596)***

.9836 (.2306)***

Middle East dyad?

1.2924 (.2074)***

1.7217 (.2979)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.4672 (.1911)*

.7082 (.2830)*

2.2848 (.0194)***

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.3031 (.0314)***

Constant

25.5357 (.3695)***

25.0078 (.4599)***

25.4535 (.4471)***

Observations

1,006,036

1,006,036

1,006,036

1,006,036

Clusters

24,871

24,871

24,871

24,871

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a

2046.92

4394.22

1321.20

2293.80

Pseudo-R-squareda

.2339

.3267

.2113

.3105

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

23.9519 (.6146)***

Table 3.6 RELogit regression on religionist preference (binary), clustered by directed dyad. Christianity Christianity Christianity Christianity Islam

Christian Preference?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.6462 (.1272)***

2.3624 (.1275)**

2.6910 (.2034)**

2.2691 (.2278)

Muslim Preference?

Islam

Islam

Islam

Buddhism Buddhism Buddhism Buddhism

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.3284 (.1315)*

.2743 (.1419)a

.3172 (.1981)

.3424 (.2400) .2078 (.2896)

2.0254 (.3066)

.2176 (.3268)

.0015 (.4087)

Buddhist Preference? Log CINC State 1

.3836 (.1198)**

.8999 (.1882)***

.4293 (.1217)***

.9596 (.1776)***

.3743 (.1196)**

.8880 (.1984)***

Log CINC State 2

.4730 (.0924)***

.2523 (.1443)

.4786 (.0926)***

.2552 (.1439)

.4780 (.0929)***

.2561 (.1474)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0776 (.0503)

2.1804 (.0778)*

2.0723 (.0503)

2.1747 (.0786)*

2.0745 (.0501)

2.1767 (.0783)*

Low polity score of dyad

2.0601 (.0098)***

2.0303 (.0114)**

2.0740 (.0180)***

2.0438 (.0203)*

2.0734 (.0094)***

2.0330 (.0112)**

2.0893 (.0165)***

2.0474 (.0193)*

2.0788 (.0089)***

2.0313 (.0012)**

2.0949 (.0148)***

2.0452 (.0199)*

Polity score State 1

2.0236 (.0086)**

2.0085 (.0117)

2.0234 (.0087)**

2.0049 (.0114)

2.0278 (.0084)**

2.0106 (.0110)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.1284 (.1508)

2.1749 (.2901)

.0952 (.1489)

2.1982 (.2841)

.1133 (.1503)

2.1839 (.2936)

Entente (2→1)?

.0444 (.2876)

.2405 (.5696)

.0629 (.2880)

.2269 (.5741)

.0712 (.2914)

.2493 (.5634)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7576 (.2404)**

.9870 (.3864)*

.7440 (.2459)**

.9967 (.3829)**

.7319 (.2476)**

.9756 (.3833)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8286 (.2618)**

2.8825 (.6324)

2.8460 (.2631)**

2.8917 (.6261)

2.8450 (.2660)**

2.8902 (.6274)

Log GDP State .2251 1 (.0302)***

.1930 (.0428)***

.1658 (.0402)***

2.0175 (.0592)

.2815 (.0310)***

.1944 (.0436)***

.2235 (.0403)***

2.0224 (.0600)

.2552 (.0284)***

.2046 (.0432)***

.1990 (.0387)***

2.0086 (.0586)

2.8173 (.0212)***

2.5526 (.0281)***

2.8304 (.0314)***

2.5317 (.0399)***

2.8212 (.0211)***

2.5558 (.0282)***

2.8351 (.0306)***

2.5347 (.0403)***

2.8260 (.0218)***

2.5544 (.0284)***

2.8400 (.0315)***

2.5330 (.0400)***

Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

1.6282 (.2118)***

1.2121 (.3549)**

1.6068 (.2120)***

1.2766 (.3678)**

1.4887 (.2195)***

1.1336 (.3649)**

European dyad?

.3178 (.1963)

.7536 (.3027)*

.2975 (.1975)

.8016 (.2896)**

.2004 (.1995)

.6830 (.3129)*

African dyad?

.8906 (.1600)***

.9443 (.2319)***

.7913 (.1659)***

.8550 (.2399)***

.8493 (.1606)***

.9196 (.2350)***

Middle East dyad?

1.3812 (.2151)***

1.7850 (.3536)***

1.3857 (.2149)***

1.7416 (.3120)***

1.4902 (.1978)***

1.8641 (.2817)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.2130 (.2011)

.5122 (.2939)

.4025 (.1922)*

.6770 (.2817)*

.3818 (.1966)

.6331 (.3169)*

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.2872 (.0196)***

2.3017 (.0319)***

2.2890 (.0196)***

2.3024 (.0317)***

2.2893 (.0194)***

2.3027 (.0318)***

Constant

24.4293 (.3694)***

24.2108 (.4464)***

24.7608 (.5073)***

23.4057 (.5961)***

25.4821 (.3914)***

24.5651 (.4457)***

25.8317 (.5038)***

23.6971 (.5823)***

25.0304 (.3301)***

24.4965 (.4420)***

25.4043 (.4705)***

23.6161 (.5757)***

Observations

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

1,015,060

Clusters

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)b

2084.11

4314.10

1326.76

2400.77

2069.28

4313.25

1279.70

2226.81

2111.62

4319.10

1283.33

2257.69

Pseudo-Rsquaredb

.2380

.3245

.2165

.3092

.2337

.3240

.2118

.3096

.2325

.3234

.2107

.3088

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a p,.053. b Diagnostics via logit command.

Table 3.7 RELogit regression on religionist GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. Christianity Christianity Christianity Christianity Islam

Christian GRP (0–10)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.1839 (.0318)***

2.0899 (.0353)*

2.2375 (.0452)***

2.1307 (.0578)*

Muslim GRP (0–10)

Islam

Islam

Islam

Buddhism Buddhism Buddhism Buddhism

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0999 (.0317)**

.1175 (.0336)***

.0727 (.0466)

.0884 (.0605) 2.1911 (.0680)**

2.1216 (.0563)*

2.1427 (.0863)

2.0465 (.0812)

Buddhist GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1

.3145 (.1240)*

.8047 (.1946)***

.5111 (.1236)***

.9983 (.1785)***

.3287 (.1214)**

.8676 (.1911)***

Log CINC State 2

.4671 (.0938)***

.2406 (.1440)

.4831 (.0934)***

.2555 (.1442)

.4707 (.0919)***

.2525 (.1439)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0773 (.0507)

2.1832 (.0782)*

2.0704 (.0503)

2.1740 (.0782)*

2.0747 (.0506)

2.1773 (.0782)*

Low polity score of dyad

2.0596 (.0090)***

2.0317 (.0114)**

2.0686 (.0163)***

2.0457 (.0204)*

2.0730 (.0093)***

2.0323 (.0113)**

2.0904 (.0162)***

2.0462 (.0197)*

2.0713 (.0092)***

2.0306 (.0112)**

2.0888 (.0149)***

2.0450 (.0201)*

Polity score State 1

2.0203 (.0091)*

.0009 (.0130)

2.0238 (.0088)**

2.0079 (.0114)

2.0230 (.0086)**

2.0084 (.0119)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.0962 (.1545)

2.2187 (.2966)

.1425 (.1396)

2.1496 (.2800)

.0819 (.1593)

2.2026 (.2996)

Entente (2→1)?

.0901 (.2933)

.2829 (.5853)

.0225 (.2896)

.2020 (.5837)

.0522 (.2826)

.2540 (.5611)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7302 (.2488)**

.9652 (.3918)*

.7725 (.2431)**

1.0028 (.3803)**

.7207 (.2485)**

.9648 (.3971)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8668 (.2686)***

2.9015 (.6478)

2.9133 (.2611)***

2.9384 (.6083)

2.8148 (.2550)**

2.8781 (.6261)

Log GDP State 1

.2453 (.0281)***

.2130 (.0439)***

.1847 (.0380)***

.0025 (.0607)

.2678 (.0293)***

.1620 (.0448)***

.2056 (.0388)***

2.0433 (.0636)

.2504 (.0295)***

.2062 (.0437)***

.1921 (.0405)***

2.0096 (.0594)

Closest contiguity score (15land)

2.8132 (.0216)***

2.5561 (.0285)***

2.8238 (.0320)***

2.5344 (.0401)***

2.8230 (.0212)***

2.5579 (.0282)***

2.8373 (.0309)***

2.5361 (.0404)***

2.8188 (.0221)***

2.5543 (.0284)***

2.8346 (.0319)***

2.5333 (.0403)***

American dyad?

1.5747 (.2102)***

1.2499 (.3518)***

1.6984 (.2162)***

1.2669 (.3749)**

1.5138 (.2148)***

1.1333 (.3636)***

European dyad?

.2646 (.1957)

.7640 (.2983)*

.3609 (.1997)

.7976 (.2984)**

.1954 (.1950)

.6725 (.3070)*

African dyad?

.8406 (.1616)***

.9132 (.2297)***

.8173 (.1611)***

.8929 (.2318)***

.8751 (.1651)***

.9273 (.2333)***

Middle East dyad?

1.3966 (.2138)***

1.7299 (.3095)***

1.2458 (.2150)***

1.6762 (.3279)***

1.3731 (.2048)***

1.8100 (.3072)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.3284 (.1942)

.5535 (.2801)*

.4420 (.1918)*

.6868 (.2857)*

.4701 (.1943)*

.6625 (.2857)*

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.2879 (.0195)***

2.3012 (.0318)***

2.2856 (.0195)***

.3005 (.0314)***

2.2890 (.0197)***

2.3033 (.0318)***

Constant

24.2758 (.3442)***

24.2219 (.4467)***

24.4373 (.4789)***

23.2119 (.5794)***

25.6685 (.3816)***

24.7186 (.4502)***

25.8336 (.4681)***

23.7445 (.5825)***

24.4038 (.3828)***

24.1335 (.4553)***

24.8927 (.5762)***

23.4491 (.6598)***

Observations

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,444

1,014,444

1,014,444

1,014,444

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

Clusters

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a

2036.80

4233.13

1321.40

2282.03

2080.09

4281.28

1278.68

2251.53

2199.04

4214.31

1343.98

2228.02

Pseudo-Rsquareda

.2378

.3245

.2185

.3104

.2349

.3256

.2118

.3098

.2353

.3247

.2120

.3091

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

72

Research design and preliminary results

on Christian, Muslim, and Buddhist GRP composite scores, respectively. The relationship of first use of force to Christian GRP is negative and significant in all models. The relationship to Muslim GRP is positive in all models, but significant only at the lower threshold of triggering the DV (any use of force, even slight). The relationship to Buddhist GRP is negative in all models, but significant only at the lower threshold. It should be noted that the coefficients for Christian and Buddhist GRPs are all weaker in the B models (all controls), but those for Muslim GRP are stronger. Some caution is advisable in interpreting these results. To conclude that the more “Christian” or the more “Buddhist” the state’s governing regime, the more restrained the state in war and peace would be to overstate these results. The same is true for concluding that the more “Islamic,” the less restrained. It is true that in these models, an increase in the IV’s value represents greater regime-level partisan preferences for that religion. However, the IV’s increase also represents greater regime-level tolerance for that religion as a minority religion. For example, the results may mean that the greater equality the state grants to Buddhism, and the greater the state’s neutrality toward it, the less the state’s propensity to initiate armed conflicts—and not necessarily the greater the regime’s preference for Buddhism. We therefore introduce one more test, to isolate relationships of first use of force to states’ GRP scores of their Preferred religions—i.e. whether a Christian state that is more Christian behaves differently than a Christian state that is less Christian, and so on. In Table 3.8, the binary Preferred religion variables, denoting whether Christianity, Islam, or Buddhism is Preferred in the state, are interacted with states’ Christian, Muslim, and Buddhist GRP scores. The resulting IV measures religions’ respective influences on the state’s policy preferences and decisions more directly than any other variable. It would be a stretch to argue that, for example, Christianity “influences” a non-Christian state more on account of that state’s tolerance for Christianity than a non-Christian state that is intolerant of Christianity. Instead, it is far more plausible that a Christian state that displays greater favoritism toward Christianity is more influenced—by Christianity—than a Christian state displaying less favoritism toward Christianity. The models in Table 3.8 test that effect and are the most stringent tests in this book. Preferred-GRP scores for Christianity are found to be negatively correlated to first use of force in all models. They are significant at p,.05 in three of the models. In Model 2B (the higher threshold of fatal armed conflict, with all controls included), the Christian Preferred-GRP score’s p-value is p,.052 (just outside the 95% confident interval but sufficient, in my opinion, to falsify the null hypothesis given the other models’ results). The IVs’ coefficients continue to be weaker in the B models than the A models. I conclude that Christian regime preference is correlated to the state’s lesser propensity to initiate an interstate armed conflict, at any threshold. Preferred-GRP scores for Islam are positively correlated to first use of force in all models and are significant in three of them. In Model 2B, the Muslim Preferred-GRP score’s p-value is p,.078 (not sufficient, in my opinion, to falsify

Research design and preliminary results

73

the null hypothesis at the higher threshold of armed conflict initiation). Islam’s coefficients are slightly stronger in the B models than the A models. I conclude that Muslim regime preference is correlated to the state’s greater propensity to initiate an interstate armed conflict overall, but is not correlated to the state’s propensity to initiate a deadly interstate armed conflict. Although these results apply only to armed conflicts between states, not those involving non-state actors, they do undermine the narrative, promoted by some vociferous critics of Islam, that Islam poses a threat to life. Preferred-GRP scores for Buddhism are not correlated to first use of force in any model, for none of its coefficients are statistically significant. These results appear to support the conjecture stated above, that the negative relationships of Buddhist GRP scores to armed conflict initiation are driven by greater tolerance of Buddhism, not greater preference for it. That outcome appears to be a greater indicator of the democratic peace than of any effect of Buddhism on state practice.

Summary and conclusion The primary research design consists of two dependent variables measuring initiation of interstate armed conflict at two levels of severity. The independent variables measure religion, broadly speaking, but mostly religions. Some IVs are binary, others continuous. Some measure religious homogeneity of states’ populations, thus serving as a proxy for measuring popular cultural and normative identity. Others measure religious favoritism by states’ governing regimes, thus religions’ respective influences on them. Controls are added in accordance with the Rule of 3 approach, then again to accommodate the “Kitchen Sink” approach. In preliminary results, we find that state-religion is correlated to first use of force and that different individual religions are differently correlated. Christianity is firmly negatively correlated with states’ propensity to initiate interstate armed conflicts. In contrast, Islam is mildly positively correlated. Buddhism is not correlated. These conclusions flow from the totality of the results from testing religion in many different ways, i.e. not every single model supports the conclusions stated here.23 I submit that because the theorized influencers are not precisely religions but majority religions, the two most dispositive models are those that interact population majority and percentage (Table 3.4) and regime Preference and GRP score (Table 3.8). Of these two models, religion’s influence on governments’ decision-making is measured more directly in the latter one. Therefore, going forward, empirical analyses are confined to regressions on Preferred-religionist GRP scores (those used in Table 3.8). This chapter’s central, overall conclusion is that religion does have definite, measurable relationships to states’ first use of force. This conclusion holds despite controlling for many effects—indeed, controlling for many effects that are also influenced by religion, and controlling away as many factors as reasonable, raises the models’ explanatory powers definitively and predictably. We further can conclude, from comparing significant coefficients, that religion’s

Table 3.8 RELogit regression on religionist Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. Christianity Christianity Christianity Christianity Islam

Christian Preferred GRP (0–10)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.1322 (.0225)***

2.0742 (.0238)**

2.1628 (.0368)***

2.0821 (.0422)a

Muslim Preferred GRP (0–10)

Islam

Islam

Islam

Buddhism Buddhism Buddhism Buddhism

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0649 (.0186)***

.0657 (.0217)**

.0574 (.0284)*

.0682 (.0387)b .0333 (.0488)

.0039 (.0513)

.0504 (.0561)

.0291 (.0706)

Buddhist Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1

.3562 (.1204)**

.8828 (.1883)***

.4766 (.1232)***

1.0024 (.1775)***

.3768 (.1189)**

.9111 (.1953)***

Log CINC State 2

.4682 (.0931)***

.2444 (.1438)

.4769 (.0930)***

.2495 (.1429)

.4794 (.0922)***

.2549 (.1455)

Log directed CINC ratio

2.0785 (.0504)

2.1843 (.0777)*

2.0720 (.0505)

2.1762 (.0787)*

2.0740 (.0501)

2.1779 (.0782)*

Low polity score of dyad

2.0561 (.0098)***

2.0304 (.0114)**

2.0661 (.0182)***

2.0433 (.0205)*

2.0698 (.0095)***

2.0335 (.0112)**

2.0863 (.0170)***

2.0479 (.0192)*

2.0788 (.0089)***

2.0309 (.0112)**

2.0949 (.0149)***

2.0450 (.0199)*

Polity score State 1

2.0220 (.0088)*

2.0051 (.0122)

2.0194 (.0090)*

2.0013 (.0120)

2.0284 (.0084)**

2.0111 (.0111)

Defense pact (2→1)?

.1238 (.1490)

2.1685 (.2881)

.1044 (.1458)

2.1846 (.2810)

.1112 (.1511)

2.1815 (.2931)

Entente (2→1)?

.0768 (.2889)

.2650 (.5759)

.0271 (.2865)

.1968 (.5780)

.0660 (.2927)

.2462 (.5713)

Neutrality pact (1→2)?

.7522 (.2442)**

.9890 (.3841)*

.7649 (.2461)**

1.0100 (.3808)**

.7316 (.2470)**

.9656 (.3836)*

Nonaggression pact (1→2)?

2.8626 (.2645)**

Log GDP State .2288 1 (.0291)***

.1999 (.0428)***

.1654 (.0387)***

2.0169 (.0587)

.2813 (.0301)***

.1777 (.0440)***

.2188 (.0392)***

2.0401 (.0616)

.2565 (.0284)***

.2055 (.0432)***

.1992 (.0388)***

2.0116 (.0582)

.8158 (.0212)***

2.5549 (.0283)***

2.8273 (.0315)***

2.5323 (.0400)***

2.8209 (.0212)***

2.5570 (.0282)***

2.8349 (.0307)***

2.5358 (.0402)

2.8256 (.0216)***

2.5548 (.0284)***

2.8400 (.0314)***

2.5331 (.0401)***

Closest contiguity score (15land)

2.9059 (.6375)

2.8624 (.2595)**

2.9053 (.6149)

2.8476 (.2673)**

2.8854 (.6348)

American dyad?

1.6378 (.2081)***

1.2811 (.3503)***

1.6994 (.2128)***

1.3293 (.3743)***

1.4986 (.2198)***

1.1391 (.3655)***

European dyad?

.3310 (.1950)

.8195 (.2966)**

.3693 (.1997)

.8496 (.2944)**

.2053 (.1995)

.6943 (.3126)*

African dyad?

.8595 (.1612)***

.9333 (.2305)***

.7961 (.1618)***

.8709 (.2325)***

.8566 (.1610)***

.9395 (.2375)***

Middle East dyad?

1.3596 (.2159)***

1.7068 (.3269)***

1.2815 (.2227)***

1.6498 (.3303)***

1.4975 (.1978)***

1.8757 (.2826)***

Asia-Pacific dyad?

.2164 (.1989)

.4425 (.2884)

.4319 (.1911)*

.6994 (.2817)*

.3687 (.1957)

.5858 (.3157)***

Peace-years (cubic splines omitted)

2.2871 (.0196)***

2.3010 (.0320)***

2.2867 (.0195)***

2.3006 (.0314)***

2.2892 (.0195)***

2.3026 (.0318)***

Constant

24.4827 (.3516)***

24.2603 (.4438)***

24.7394 (.4829)***

23.3196 (.5772)

25.5425 (.3709)

24.5191 (.4436)***

25.8195 (.4716)***

23.6002 (.5809)***

25.0463 (.3309)***

24.5085 (.4417)***

25.4102 (.4727)***

23.6020 (.5788)***

Observations

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,444

1,014,444

1,014,444

1,014,444

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

1,014,361

Clusters

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

25,040

Wald Chi-squared (4,21)c

2076.57

4316.00

1333.73

2440.52

2073.49

4271.22

1281.72

2223.53

2116.30

4318.73

1282.49

2268.43

Pseudo-Rsquaredc

.2395

.3250

.2198

.3103

.2352

.3252

.2126

.3103

.2326

.3237

.2109

.3090

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a p,.052. b p,.078. c Diagnostics via logit command.

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relationship is as strong as or stronger than those of several other factors that are conventionally and routinely controlled for, such as power differential and the democratic peace. The way forward is to explore deeply why the three different religions have three different relationships. Why are Muslim states acting overall with less restraint and Christian states overall with more? If the Islam and Christianity are actually causations, not merely correlations, then why are Buddhist states not affected? The next three chapters explore these questions through extensive case studies. These cases are not of individual states’ leaders or other regime elites declaring or otherwise manifesting intent to act in accordance with the standards of behavior inculcated in their respective religions—we will not find, for example, a Christian head of state saying “Christianity forbids that I attack such-and-such state, therefore I shall not.” Instead, the case studies consist of explorations of the content of religionist war ethics, as memorialized in scripture and classical literature, diffused today by religious epistemic communities, and exemplified in religionist historical narratives. The chapters that follow focus on Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism, respectively.

Notes 1 Bonfils (1914: sec. 1002), Lawrence (1915: sec. 3.1.135), and Davis (1916: 272) also rejected the role of international law in determining whether or not a war was right, with Lawrence specifically repudiating just war as a legal requirement. Other contemporaneous treatises even omitted mentioning it altogether (Walker, 1895; Wilson and Tucker, 1901; Smith, 1911). 2 General Treaty for the Renunciation of War as an Instrument of National Policy, Aug. 27, 1928, 94 LNTS 58. 3 A drawback to the RELogit is that it generates no diagnostics, therefore all reported Rsquared and Chi-squared values are of standard logit regressions instead. 4 I would characterize these functions better as to compel, deter, deny (to others), and benefit (to self). Any given use of force has one or more of these objectives. 5 According to its technical language, a threat of force—and impliedly a show of force—also violates Article 2(4). However, the Definition of Aggression, G.A. Res. 3314 (1974), focuses on acts of state constituting the use of force, cf. threat or show, and the international condemnatory measures typically are in response to using force. 6 The Franco-Prussian War is the exception, not the norm. 7 The First Use of Violent Force dataset (FUVF) by Caprioli and Trumbore (2006) is well refined but covers only 1980–2005, which is too limiting. 8 G.A. Res. 3314 (XXIX). 9 For detailed documentation of the MID dataset’s coding methodology, see Jones, Bremer, and Singer (1996). 10 In a case in which the MID has a fatality but the HiAct level is below 12, there is no “use of force,” i.e. the DV is not triggered. This is no error. In such a case no state’s kinetic force against the other caused the fatality because neither state used force against the other (if any state did use force, the HiAct variable would have a higher value). In such cases, the most likely cause of the fatality is accidental—thus the

Research design and preliminary results

11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18

19

20

21

22

23

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element of intent required to hold a state or its leadership responsible for the MID in which the fatality took place is not met. http://www.thearda.com/Archive/Files/Descriptions/RCSDEM2.asp. http://www.thearda.com/Archive/Files/Descriptions/GRPCOMP.asp. Countries’ actual temporal coverage vary. Forty-eight countries have had two or more Preferred religions at some point, e.g. Cˆote d’Ivoire today is Mixed Catholic-Sunni. To construct a measurement with meaningful units, the state’s fractional CINC score is multiplied by 100, then incremented by 1 to avoid generating negative logarithm values. However, Russett finds insufficient empirical support that democracies are actually less war-prone than autocracies. Rousseau et al. (1996) find strong effects for the dyadic thesis but weak effects for the monadic. Mousseau (2009) attributes peace not to regime type, but to contract-intensive economies (CIEs), finding that CIEs in two states perfectly predicts peace between them—but also that armed conflict onset is reduced even when only one state has a CIE. Although CIEs in authoritarian states are possible, the degree of respect for rule of law necessary for a CIE seems less natural to an autocracy, where access to governance and civil liberties are generally curtailed. All models in this chapter were retested with two additional controls: the economic dependence of State 1 on State 2, and the logarithm of the directed ratio of State 1’s dependence on State 2 to State 2’s dependence on State 1. In most cases, variables that heretofore were significant were rendered insignificant and vice versa. Following the COW convention, Russia is included in both Europe and Asia-Pacific and Egypt in both Africa and Middle East. Iran is assigned to the Middle East region but Turkmenistan and Afghanistan to Asia-Pacific. Because the Preferred religion of some communist states is actually Atheism, i.e. not religion but anti-religion, adjustments must be made to designations of Preferred religions for those countries. A state’s “Adjusted Preferred” religion is that which was Preferred before its communist revolutionary government installed Atheism as Preferred, e.g. Orthodox for the Soviet Union, Confucianism for China. In doing so, this approach takes into account the lack of influence of a Preferred religion that actually is disfavored. Regressing all three religionist Preference variables together in unreported tests yielded the following results: Christian Preference is negative and significant in three of the four models; Muslim Preference is positive but not significant in any model, and Buddhist Preference is not significant in any model. In unreported tests in which Christian, Muslim, and Buddhist GRP scores were regressed together, Christian GRP was significant in two models, Muslim GRP in one, and Buddhist in none. In simultaneous regressions of Preferred-GRP scores, Christian Preferred-GRP was significant in three models, Muslim Preferred-GRP in one, and Buddhist Preferred-GRP in none.

4

The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

Introduction Christianity is the majority or Preferred religion of a preponderance of state-years from 1946 to 2001 (about 57% of them). This chapter explores the war ethic in Christianity, set forth in the two norm-propagating media that are prominent in Christianity: scripture and the most important writings of the priesthood. The dependent variable (propensity of states to use force) is regressed against Christianity and its three main branches individually (Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox), along with the category “Western Christian” (Catholic, Protestant, and Liminal Christian combined).1 I find that Christianity is nearly always negatively correlated with a state’s propensity to use force, with Catholicism having the strongest negative effect and Orthodoxy having the weakest negative effect (and occasionally, a positive one).

The Biblical foundations of Christian political theory Christian political theory ultimately is traceable to several key passages in the New Testament. As a preliminary matter, however, a translation must be selected, and this is no trivial task.2 Translations The Christian Bible is a compilation of works written over centuries, in ancient Hebrew and Aramaic (Old Testament) and ancient Greek (New Testament). A major challenge to analyzing scripture’s content and meaning in modern languages is that the same passage often appears differently in translation. Every translation is an interpretation, tinged by the translator’s experiences and ideology (Fee and Stuart, 2003: 19). Every passage must be interpreted according to its historical and literary context, with its meaning at the time and place of its original composition interpreted in light of the time and place of its reading (the disciplines of exegesis and hermeneutics; Fee and Stuart, 2003: 25–31). Further complicating matters, most modern translations until relatively recently were themselves translations of other translations, usually of the Septuagint (the 2nd–3rd-century BCE Greek translation of the Old Testament) or Vulgate (the Latin translation of the entire Bible completed in the early 5th century CE).

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Fee and Stuart (2003: 42) classify English translations on a scale from literal to free. At the extreme literal end are two versions. The first, used in the Catholic Church, is the Douay-Rheims translation of 1609–1610 and Bishop Challoner’s 1749–1752 revision (“DR”). The second is the 1611 King James Version (KJV), originating in the Anglican church and authoritative in most Anglophone Protestant denominations until the 20th century. These translations are noteworthy for their “formal equivalence,” attempting to stay as close to the form of the original language as possible while still rendering the English translation understandable. At the extreme free end of the scale, the 1971 Living Bible (LB) translates ideas into modern idiom by paraphrasing them, attempting to reduce the historical distance between ancient scripture and modern reader. Between these extremes, most contemporary English translations seek “functional” or “dynamic” equivalence, striving to retain the meaning of the original Hebrew/Greek while employing everyday English language (Fee and Stuart, 2003: 41). This middle ground is quite broad, however, with different translations gravitating toward different extremes. Among Catholic translations, the 1944–1950 Knox translation (“Knox”) and the 1966 Jerusalem Bible (JB)3 are relatively free. Among the American Catholic translations, the 1966 Revised Standard Version-Catholic Edition (RSV-CE) and the later New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) are relatively literal and the 1970 New American Bible (NAB), approved by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, stands in the middle. Among Protestant translations, the 1952 Revised Standard Version (RSV) and 1991 New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) are more literal, the 1997 New Living Translation (NLT) is freer, and the 1984 New International Version (NIV) is roughly in the middle. Undoubtedly, translations into other modern languages are fraught with the same problems. Three scriptural foundations Translations of the three Biblical passages of primary interest here vary considerably in wording but fortunately not meaning. The first passage defines the two fundamental duties of Christians: to love God and to love their neighbors as themselves (Luke 10:27). This is the moral duty of charity—advancing others’ well-being and placing their well-being at no lesser priority than one’s own. This duty also applies to Christians holding positions of political authority. Much flows from this duty. Hensel’s (2010b) exposition on the theological foundation of natural law concludes that “there was basic agreement regarding … the ultimate ends that humans should seek in order to attain their essential being and, thereby, fulfill themselves to the greatest extent possible in this life” (2010b: 63; emphasis added). Note the plural—denoting that humans should fulfill each other, not merely each one individually. And further, that theocentric Natural Law … provided human beings with universal, stable, objective, and authoritative normative standards that must be applied, not only in governing their own individual and collective conduct,

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The restrictive war ethic in Christianity but also in evaluating the actions of other individuals within the larger community (2010b: 63, emphasis added).

The second passage defines the relationship of Christians to the state (Romans 13: 1-4): Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment. For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive its approval; for it is God’s servant for your good. But if you do what is wrong, you should be afraid, for the authority does not bear the sword in vain! It is the servant of God to execute wrath on the wrongdoer. (NRSV)4 This passage defines the function of the state in Christian thought: to protect persons from injury caused by others’ wrongdoing. It follows from the Christian principle of charity that Christian political authorities have the duty to provide such protection (i.e. police power). Furthermore, the state is responsible for protecting its people from threats not only from within, but also from without. It must ensure the people’s security from attack by or from other states, and by extension, also ensure its own (i.e. the state’s) security. This is the Christian foundation for the inherent right of self-defense in Western legal thought. The third passage is the vignette of the coin. Challenged by Pharisees asking whether the Jews should pay Roman taxes, Jesus directs their attention to the emperor’s image on a Roman coin and replies, “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s” (Mark 12:17, NRSV).5 This response sets limits on the Christian duty to submit to authority—Christians must not give the state that which is God’s—and in doing so, establishes the boundaries of political authority. This is the Biblical foundation for civil liberties and human rights. It also, by extension, limits the range of legitimate causes for making war against other peoples. From these three passages, much if not all of Christian political theory can be derived, including the ethic of war.

The Western Christian war ethic Historically there are three “Christian” war ethics: Holy War, Just War, and Pacifism (Bainton, 1960: 14). The first was more pervasive 1000 years ago but is well repudiated in mainstream Christian thought today. The second and third are in tension. This section details the scriptural basis and doctrinal development of each. For now, we focus on war ethics in Western Christianity; Eastern Christian war ethics, such as they are, developed separately and differently.

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Early Christian pacifism Jesus is never recorded as supporting either war or revolt against the Roman occupiers. The strongest scriptural basis for pacifism is the Sermon on the Mount extolling the oppressed and powerless: Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth…. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God…. Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you … on my account. (Matthew 5:510, NRSV) Jesus continues by preaching non-violence: You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if any one strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if any one forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. (Matthew 5:38-41, NRSV) He further characterizes the duty of love (or charity) as absolute: You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:43-4, NRSV) Other acts of Jesus reflect an extreme form of pacifism. Jesus turns down multiple offers of political dominion (Matthew 4:8-10; John 6:15). He also rejects any resistance to his own arrest, even knowing that he will be tortured, crucified, and killed (Matthew 26:50-4). The vignettes presented above form the scriptural basis for Christian pacifism, in which the duty of non-violence is treated as absolute.6 Jesus does not address the morality of political violence directly, but others do. Since Jesus has delegitimized interpersonal violence, the argument goes, corporate violence must be illegitimate also. Following this logic and writing in the second and third centuries CE, Tertullian condemns war absolutely and unequivocally, advocating total submission to persecution and execution even though in his time Christians are sufficiently numerous to successfully revolt (Apologeticus, sec. 37, in Cadoux, 1982: 79; De Corona Militis, sec. 11, in Eppstein, 1935: 36). For Tertullian, the defining moment of pacifism is when Jesus rebukes Peter for trying to protect him, cutting off a Roman soldier’s ear in the process. “Put your sword back into its place,” he says, “for all who take the sword will perish by the sword” (Matthew 26:52, NRSV). Tertullian argues that in doing so, Jesus “cursed the works of the sword for ever after” (De Patienta, sec. 3, in Cadoux, 1982: 51); in disarming Peter, he further writes, he “unbelted every soldier” (De Idolotria, chap. 19, in Eppstein, 1935: 37). Tertullian even advises Christians to leave military service

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(De Corona Militis, sec. 11, in Eppstein, 1935: 36; see also Cadoux, 1982: 113–4), which not even Jesus or other New Testament figures do.7 Pacifism had other proponents also, both before and after Tertullian. Aristides repudiates humankind’s warlike nature, which he likens to that of ancient Greek gods (Apology, sec. 8, in Cadoux, 1982: 50).8 Justin Martyr renounces the right “to answer fighting with fighting” (Apologia I pro Christianis, secs. 16, 34, in Eppstein, 1935: 32; see also Bainton, 1960: 72), and further blames wars, murders, and other wickedness on evil angels (Apologia II pro Christianis, v. 4, in Cadoux, 1982: 50). Tatianus equates war with murder (Oratio ad Graecos, sec. 19, in Cadoux, 1982: 50), and Athenagoras classifies unjust war as among the worst of sins (Legatio pro Christianis, sec. 35, in Cadoux, 1982: 50). Athenagoras appears particularly concerned about war’s effects—“the slaughter of myriads of men, the razing of cities, … the destruction of entire populations.” Post-Tertullian pacifists include Cyprian, who would leave vengeance to God (Testimonia adversus Judaesos (ad Quirinum), in Cadoux, 1982: 81),9 and Lactantius, who equates justice with non-violence (Divinae Institutiones, passim, in Cadoux, 1982: 83–4). All the foregoing authors regard war as divine justice for transgressions, but believe that Christians are forbidden to participate in them.10 Emergence of the just war tradition The New Testament basis for a more permissive war ethic than pacifism is more obscure. In the Gospels, the Christian war ethic is more evident in what is left unsaid. Jesus’s immediate predecessor, John the Baptist, when asked by soldiers what behavior is righteous for them, replies “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages” (Luke 3:14, NRSV). In essence, he tells them to comport themselves professionally and responsibly, yet does not advise them to resign from service. Neither does Jesus do so in his encounters with Roman soldiers. At Capernaum, a Roman centurion appeals to Jesus to heal his servant, and Jesus agrees to do so, telling the crowd, “Truly I tell you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith” (Matthew 8:10, NRSV). But the duty of submission to authority, which Jesus goes out his way to praise in the centurion, has boundaries. In the vignette of the coin discussed above, Jesus not only advises submission to the earthly sovereign in earthly matters (though to God in spiritual matters), but also giving the earthly sovereign other, less tangible things than mere taxes: loyalty, honor, or obedience. What is most significant is what Jesus does not say: he does not advise rendering to Caesar that which is not Caesar’s. In this way, Jesus allows for disloyalty, disobedience, and resistance, when no loyalty, obedience, or submission is deserved. Other biblical passages suggest limits to Christian submission more overtly. Jesus shames the Pharisees into releasing an adulteress, although Jewish law prescribes stoning for her offense (John 8:3-11). Jesus fashions a whip and angrily drives the money-changers and vendors from the Temple (John 2:13-6).11

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Scholars disagree as to whether this vignette exemplifies Jesus actually using force; Eppstein (1935: 14) argues that it does, whereas Cadoux (1982: 34–5) argues that Jesus more likely expelled them by the non-physical force of his authority. The point, however, is that Jesus is unmistakably flouting authority, for rabbinic law specifically permitted the money-changers’ and vendors’ presence in the Temple (Watson, 1996: 76–7).12 In these instances, Jesus did not submit to authority and was willing to coerce others in order to rectify wrongs. As to statecraft, the most direct biblical guidance comes not from Jesus, but from Paul. Like Jesus, Paul teaches Christians to maintain peace and order, writing “Pay to all what is due them—taxes to whom taxes are due, revenue to whom revenue is due, respect to whom respect is due, honor to whom honor is due” (Romans 13:7, NRSV).13 We have already noted that the state enjoys not merely the right to use force to maintain order, but also the responsibility to protect the people from harm (Romans 13:4). In making no distinction between harm posed by internal threats to public order (e.g. crime and rioting) and external threats (e.g. foreign invasion), Paul professes that the state has the right and duty of self-defense. This is the scriptural foundation for the just war ethic in Christian thought. Although there is no record of Christians serving in the Roman military from 50 to 170 CE (see Cadoux, 1982: 97; Bainton, 1960: 67–9), subsequent writings indicate that by the third century many soldiers were converting to Christianity. Among contemporaneous Christian scholars, Clement of Alexandria advises Christian converts in military service to “obey the Captain who giveth just commands,” stopping short of condemning military service outright (quoted in Eppstein, 1935: 40). Origen advocates Christian abstention from military service, but takes the pragmatic view that righteous wars such as national defense are distinguishable from unrighteous wars, and advises Christians to pray for victory in righteous wars (Contra Celsum, in Eppstein, 1935: 43–4; see also Cadoux, 1982: 137; Bainton, 1960: 69). Historical circumstances also contribute to tensions between non-violence and limited protective violence. In Tertullian’s day, the Pax Romana made pacifism possible in the West. In the East, however, constant border threats rendered pacifism unsustainable. Christians participated in the Thundering Legion of the province of Melitene (in present-day Armenia) in 173 CE. In 202 CE, while Christians were still persecuted in the West, King Abgar IX of Edessa converted to Christianity and made it the official religion; his forces therefore must have included Christians at the highest level (Bainton, 1960: 70). In the West, two political events set the stage for a more permanent reconciliation of the just war ethic with Christian pacifism. The first was the conversion of Emperor Constantine, who as a pagan had tolerated Christianity. In 312 CE, on the eve of battle against rival and intolerant emperor Maxentius, Constantine had visions of his army fighting under the Christian banner, seeing a cross in the sky and the caption “in this sign conquer.” He obeyed the command, ordering his soldiers to mark crosses on their shields. Constantine’s forces won the Battle of

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the Milvian Bridge (Durant, 1944: 654, citing Eusebios, Life of Constantine, bk. 1, sec. 28) and, in doing so, won the imperium. By 323, Constantine had legalized Christianity in the Roman Empire and had himself converted and invited the rest of the empire to convert with him. This set the stage for Emperor Theodosius to make Christianity the Empire’s official religion in 380. By 416, in stark contrast to the days when military converts to Christianity had been executed, military service was restricted to Christians (Bainton, 1960: 68; Cadoux, 1982: 257). Christianity had transformed from a religion of the oppressed and martyred into a religion with material power. The other historical event shaping Western Christian attitudes toward war was the threat posed to Italy by Germanic tribes, culminating in the Visigoths sacking Rome in 410. To some contemporaneous scholars, the Christianization of the Roman Empire had fulfilled Isaiah’s prophecy of swords beaten into plowshares (Isaiah 2:3) in an unintended way: the horde of marauders holding itself out as the Roman army had transformed into a professional military organization whose purpose was to maintain the Pax Romana against barbarian onslaught (Russell, 1975: 12; Bainton, 1960: 86–8). John Chrysostom, Bishop of Constantinople, justifies war “when the soldiers on our side are attacked by the barbarians” (Homily [VII] on the First Epistle to Timothy, in Eppstein, 1935: 53). Ambrose, an Italian government official and Bishop of Milan, merges Christian ethics with the Ciceronian tradition of public and private duties and derives rationales for self-preservation, defense of others, and intervention. “Fortitude,” he writes, “which in war preserves the country from the barbarians … or defends one’s neighbours from robbers, is full of justice” (De Officiis, bk. 1, chap. 27, sec. 129, in Eppstein, 1935: 58). These new realities facing Rome and their engendering Christianity’s reconciliation with war form the basis of Morkevicius’s (2018: 66–76) argument that the Christian war ethic (i.e. the just war tradition) is essentially realist. Despite sharing several pessimistic commonalities with Realism (Morkevicius, 2018: 17–24), the just war tradition is decidedly not realist. Realist ad bellum logic is predicated on self-interest—material interest of the state or government in acquiring or preserving its own power, well-being, or other utility. In contrast, the new outlook on war about to be introduced is grounded in infusing charity into the ad bellum logic. Such infusions of the duty of charity into the laws of war, coupled with the need for the newly Christianized empire to counter real threats to its survival, paved the way for foundational works of Western just war theory by Augustine, Bishop of Hippo. Augustine views war not as a vehicle for advancing staatsraison, but instead as a charitable enterprise, undertaken for the benefit of others, not self. Subsequent variants of the just war tradition (Thomist, Victorian, Suarezian, and beyond) follow this trajectory. Augustine offers no systematic treatment of war despite his massive body of writings, but a common thread runs through his works: that war, as a divine punishment for sin, is an act of charity. Just as the pre-Christian Greeks personify war’s duality in the persons of Ares and Athena (Brown, 2008: 5–6), Augustine recognizes that war could be sinful or charitable. The evil of war, he writes in

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Contra Faustum in 398, is not the death and destruction accompanying it, but the love of those things: “The desire to do harm, cruelty in taking vengeance, … the lust of domination … these are the things that are rightly blamed in wars” (Augustine, 1990: bk. 12, chap. 74). A legitimate war, to Augustine, can be prosecuted without passion or hatred, but to charitably maintain a just order (id.: citing John the Baptist). The just warrior, in restraining the sinner from committing acts of evil, actually acts in the sinner’s best interest—an act of charity. To Augustine, those who turn to the sword in this manner, “in obedience to the divine command, or in conformity with His laws, have represented in their persons the public justice or the wisdom of government, and in this capacity have put to death wicked men” and thus are exempted from the divine commandment prohibiting murder (De Civitate Dei, in Augustine, 1952: bk. 1, chap. 21).14 Love for one’s enemies does not preclude physical punishment for their transgressions and hatred, only malice in inflicting it (Sermon 302: Augustine, 2001a: sec. 15; Letter 138: Augustine, 2001b: sec. 2(15)). Such punishment is charitable because it saves souls. As Bainton (1960: 92) puts it, Killing and love could the more readily be squared by Augustine because in his judgment life in the body is not of extreme importance. What matters is eternal salvation. The destruction of the body may actually be of benefit to the soul of the sinner. The just war tradition in Christian thought begins with Augustine, though even in his day the concept was not new. The Roman legal precept of bellum justum (just war) had long since developed from the jus fetiale of the Roman republic15 and culminated in the works of Cicero (De Officiis: Cicero, 1961: bk. 3, sec. 23; De Re Publica: Cicero, 1998: bk. 1, chap. 11, secs. 35-8). Augustine’s theory of just war shares commonalities with Cicero’s. One is that peace is preferable to war16 and that war’s goal should always be peace. Augustine writes in 418: Peace should be the object of your desire. War should be waged only as a necessity and waged only that through it God may deliver men from that necessity and preserve them in peace. For peace is not to be sought in order to kindle war, but war is to be waged in order to obtain peace. (Epistle 189, sec. 6, in Eppstein, 1935: 78)17 But he goes further in De Civitate Dei, lamenting the misery even of necessary war: For it is the wrongdoing of the opposing party which compels the wise man to wage just wars; and this wrong-doing, even though it gave rise to no war, would still be matter of grief to man because it is man’s wrong-doing. Let every one, then, who thinks with on all these great evils … acknowledge that this is misery. (Augustine, 1952: bk. 19, chap. 7)

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Augustine’s broad affirmation of peace raises an important question: What constitutes a breach of the peace necessitating its restoration? His approach is to equate breach of peace with breach of justice. This is the second commonality between Augustine and Cicero. A just war, to Augustine, is that which redresses an injury.18 In 419, nine years after the sacking of Rome, Augustine writes, Just wars are usually defined as those which avenge injuries, when the nation or city against which warlike action is to be directed has neglected either to punish wrongs committed by its own citizens or to restore what has been unjustly taken by it. (Quæstiones in Heptateuchum, bk. 6, sec. 10b, in Eppstein, 1935: 74) Thus was born the principle justa bella ulciscuntur injurias—just wars avenge injuries (see Russell, 1975: 18). A war undertaken with evil purpose, such as love of killing or destruction, anger, or lust for power, is unjust and precipitating war with such motives inflicts injury. Conquest for conquest’s sake is unjust, but defense of the homeland, its people, and their property are just causes for war (De Civitate Dei, in Augustine, 1952: bk. 4, chap. 6; id.: bk. 3, chap. 10).19 Authority to wage war is the third commonality between Augustine and Cicero. To Augustine, such authority rests with the political ruler (Contra Faustum: Augustine, 1990: bk. 12, chap. 75).20 This is consistent with his conception of war as divine punishment for sin; a sovereign ruler is answerable to none except God, and God carries out his work through the sovereign. A war undertaken without such authority usurps the sovereign’s function, thus God’s also. Consequently, authority to execute the war lies with the sovereign’s officials—the soldiers—and none other (see Russell, 1975: 18). Emergence of the holy war ethic After the fall of the Western Roman Empire in 476, the Augustinian conception of war as charitable punishment for sin gradually evolved into a more militant ethic. The third major war ethic in Christian thought, Holy War, was pervasive in Christian thought during the Crusades and Counter-Reformation but is repudiated today. As a result, the Christian war ethic during that period was significantly more permissive than today. Nevertheless, for completeness, a full exposition of the holy war ethic in Christianity is presented. Holy war is fought at God’s direct command; its proponents may even regard it as fought by God, acting through his warriors. Holy war is fought not for earthly, material objectives but instead for an outcome that its proponents believe is pleasing to God. Long (1968: 33–41) identifies four common characteristics of holy war: (1) primarily or solely motivated by religion; (2) promise of spiritual reward; (3) often less restrained on methods and means of war; and (4) its cause is absolute and unquestionable, even if the war’s result be otherwise immoral. Holy war is distinguishable from just war in several ways: It seeks to remediate perceived injuries or offenses against God, whereas just war is confined to

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remediating earthly injuries. Warfare itself is constrained in just war but not in holy war. Because holy war is by divine mandate, it allows for no possibility that injustices caused by the remediation might outweigh injustices caused by the injury, whereas just war does allow for that possibility.21 Because the two ethics both pursue remediation, there is some overlap between them and it is conceivable that the just war ethic carried too far could assume holy war characteristics, as Heimbach (2008) argues in his treatment of war for regime change. But I submit that the same is true of the relationship of just war to pacifism; the just war ethic becomes pacifism when the constraints on war-making are taken to extremes, as Yoder (1984: 22) and Fiala (2008) have done. Just war occupies a middle ground between holy war and pacifism, and the boundaries separating just war from the more extreme ethics are not precisely defined. The Judeo-Christian scriptural basis for holy war is grounded in God’s covenant with Abraham to give the Promised Land (Canaan) to Abraham’s descendants (Genesis 17:6-8). When Israel emerges as a nation, God fulfills the covenant by instructing the Israelites to conquer Canaan completely, leaving no survivors (Deuteronomy 7:1-5, 24-5; id. 20:16-7). Further narratives reveal a pattern in which the Israelites’ faith in and obedience to God guarantees them victory, but turning away from God leads to defeat and conquest (e.g. First Kings; Second Kings). Like the just war doctrine, holy war owes its heritage to Augustine, whose central tenet is that war is just to avenge an injury. But to Augustine, this includes not merely restoring the status quo ante, but also punishing the injurious act. Russell (1975: 19) likens the difference to a court awarding punitive damages on top of compensatory damages; the just war “not only avenge[s] the violation of existing legal rights but also avenge[s] the moral order injured by the sins of the guilty party regardless of the injuries done to the just party acting as a defender of that order.” Augustine would permit total war against the offender, regardless of the offense, even though this could result in the offender’s total annihilation. In addition, Augustine’s view of justice goes beyond avenging earthly injuries. To him, war is a form of punishment for sin, making it divinely sanctioned (Quaestiones in Heptateuchum, bk. 6, chap. 10, in Eppstein, 1935: 74; De Civitate Dei, in Augustine, 1952: bk. 1, chap. 21; id.: bk. 19, chap. 15). This principle grounds his opinion that heresy warrants punishment (see Russell, 1975: 23).22 As Moses punished the Israelites for their wickedness, so too may orthodoxy use force to return heretics to the fold. In Augustine’s eyes, both are charitable acts, carried out by divine authority (Letter 93, in Augustine, 1996: 193–9).23 Taken to extremes, this theory could (and did) generate considerable violence against non-Christianity and breakaway sects of Christianity, beginning shortly after Augustine’s death. An epistle once falsely attributed to Augustine claims that God will grant victory to the side fighting a just cause (Gravi de pugna; Russell, 1975: 26–7). In the late 6th century, Gregory of Tours extends the Augustinian concept of Providence, determining history’s outcome, to the idea that war’s justness is linked to, and determinable by, its outcome (Historia Francorum, bk. 8, sec. 32; Russell, 1975: 26). Pope Gregory I (Gregory the Great) also

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supports persecution and war against heretical sects, and the duty of secular rulers to make war at the Church’s behest (Registrum Epistolarum, bk. 2, sec. 35; Russell, 1975: 27–8); his historical context is the threat to mainstream Rome by the warlike—and in his eyes, heretical (albeit Christian)—Lombards to the north.24 God would aid righteous and obedient rulers and punish those who refused his will, as transmitted to them by the clergy (Registrum Epistolarum, bk. 8, sec. 4; bk. 2, sec. 7; Russell, 1975: 27–8). In this manner, the holy war ethic entered Christian thought as the Church ascended to power to fill the vacuum left by the Roman Empire’s collapse. The first Holy Roman Emperor, Charlemagne, was influenced heavily by the Church’s position on the role of a just king: to drive out the impious and defend the kingdom and Church alike against their adversaries. As King of the Franks, he invaded Spain in 777 to battle the Moors in the name of Christianity. He warred against the pagan Saxons for 32 years and forcibly converted them to Christianity, and protected Rome from the heretic Lombards. Charlemagne tied the fate of his kingdom to Christianity, and the Church thus linked its own success with that of Charlemagne. After his death, with the newly constituted Holy Roman Empire plagued by invasions from outside and strife from within, 9th-century clergy expounded on the Church’s need to maintain order by force. Agobard, Archbishop of Lyon, views internal dissension as unjust, advocating forcible pacification of barbarians within the Empire and on its borders. Hincmar, Archbishop of Reims, favors war against pagans and to quell strife between Christian rulers and officials within the Empire, which Hincmar views as unjust and unworthy of Christianity (Russell, 1975: 30). Although other contemporaneous writers advocated temperance, such temperance reached its limit when Muslim pirates (the Saracens) began raiding southern Italy. After they sacked Rome and desecrated St. Peter’s basilica (846), Pope Leo IV took an active role in combating those raids, promising eternal life to those who died fighting the Saracens: Put off all fear and horror, fight valiantly against these enemies of the holy faith, these adversaries of all religions. If one of you should fall, the Almighty will know that he died for the truth of the faith, for the salvation of the fatherland, and for the defence of Christians; he will therefore receive celestial reward from His hand. (1 FHIG 241) Pope John VIII similarly promises eternal salvation to the fallen in wars against infidels and pagans (Russell, 1975: 33). This theme resonated for centuries afterward. By the 11th century, the Church had acquired a strong interest in the fate of Eastern Christian lands, which had been chipped away by Muslim expansion, and that of their peoples, whom Western Christians believed had been converted to Islam forcibly, or killed or enslaved. Pope Gregory VII issued a general call to arms to reverse this trend: “for as He [Jesus] laid down His life for us, so we also ought to lay down our lives for

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our brethren” (Epistle 49, Ad Omnes Christianos, in Eppstein, 1935: 94). In 1095, Pope Urban II solidified both of Gregory’s movements, preaching holy war to liberate the Holy Land from the Muslims and inaugurating the Crusades (1 FHIG 242). In the late 12th century, Huguccio views war as punishment on deserving peoples: just as the Jews deserved the wars inflicted on them by Nebuchadnezzar, he writes, so do wars between the Christians and Saracens serve to punish each other for their respective sins (Commentary to Decretum Gratiani, C. 23, q. 5, c. 13, in Russell, 1975: 113).25 In Huguccio’s eyes, the most direct justification for war to recover the Holy Land is the need to eradicate heresy. Huguccio supports war against heretical sects, not only on account of their offense to God but also because they have usurped territories once held by Christians by divine right. Accordingly, property of heretics is subject to confiscation (Russell, 1975: 114). By analogy, as Saracen control of the Holy Land deeply offends the Church, Christians have the right to repossess it. Therefore to Huguccio, the Crusades are God’s war.26 His influence had far-reaching results—his one-time pupil Pope Innocent III inaugurated the Fourth Crusade (Russell, 1975: 119–22). The need for legitimate defense against raids, incursions, and invasions thus evolved into the holy war ethic. In the 13th century, Johannes de Deo links the Crusades to defense of property, on the premise that Muslims are unjustly occupying lands rightfully belonging to Christians. Pope Innocent IV regards Muslim occupation of the Holy Land as offensive to all Christendom and thus justifies war to liberate it (Russell, 1975: 199). Hostiensis regards wars against infidels as the most just of seven categories (1 FHIG 572; see also Russell, 1975: 129). However, several authors, including Innocent IV, also take the position that Muslims posing no threat to Christendom should be left alone. For example, Raymond of Peñafort tolerates Muslims’ control over their own lands (except previously Christian lands) and accepts punishing Christians who commit sins against them (Russell, 1975: 198–9, 207). In the 13th century, as the Crusaders suffered defeat after defeat and the Crusades themselves wound down, Christendom directed its attention more toward heresy, sometimes treating that threat as the more urgent one.27 Pope Innocent III directed princes to persecute heretics and confiscate their property (1 FHIG 590).28 At the Church’s behest, northern French forces launched the Albigensian Crusade (1208–1229) to eradicate the Cathars or Albigenses, a breakaway sect in southern France (Bainton, 1960: 115ff). In 1233, Pope Gregory IX authorized Dominican friars charged to eradicate heresy to enlist secular forces if necessary (Harsanyi, 1989: 45). The Church’s holy war against heresy escalated in the 16th century. When Martin Luther inaugurated a breakaway movement from Rome in 1517 (the Reformation), the central church militarized the conflict and Catholic political authorities frequently responded with force. Wars between Catholic and Protestant partisans during this period include the Counts’ War in Denmark (1533–1536), a war for the Danish throne; Dacke’s War in Sweden (1542–1543), a peasant revolt; and Spanish interference in the religious affairs of other kingdoms including Scotland (1559), France (First War of Religion, 1562), and

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England (Tyrone’s Rebellion, 1595). In Germany, nine Protestant states formed the Schmalkaldic League, a defensive alliance against Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, a Catholic. In 1618, Austrian Emperor Ferdinand II (a Catholic Hapsburg) went to war for being passed over for Bohemia’s throne in favor of a Protestant—thus igniting the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648), which is widely regarded as Protestantism’s war of independence from the Catholic Church. The highly permissive war ethic dominating this era was not confined to Catholics. Some Protestant sects were equally militant against Catholics and rival Protestants. In Germany, Radical Reformationist discontent against political authorities on account of religious differences (Reichberg, Syse, and Begby, 2006: 280–3) culminated in the Peasants’ Rebellion (1524–1526).29 In Switzerland, the militant Reformationist leader Ulrich Zwingli formed an alliance of Protestant cantons, prompting Catholic cantons to reciprocate, and two wars ensued (the Kappel Wars, 1529–1531). Despite its longevity—and even short-lived resurgence during the Boer War and World War I (Hazlett, 2004: 100–1)—the holy war ethic in Christianity largely has fizzled out today. The reason is not clear. Bainton (1960: 174) attributes its demise to the return of pity during the Enlightenment. Furthermore, though Bainton himself does not argue this, linking the end of holy war to the Enlightenment implies its linkage to the rise of greater religious tolerance, which itself could be rooted in charitable respect for differences (e.g. Locke, 2003) or in secularization generally (e.g. “civil religion”; Rousseau, 2002: bk. 4, chap. 8). I would argue, however, that the cause of holy war’s decline runs deeper and begins earlier than Bainton claims. What ultimately marks its decline is holy war’s failure to achieve its goals. The Crusades’ early successes were rolled back, and later Crusades were unsuccessful (sometimes disastrously so). Furthermore, although campaigns to Christianize northern Europe were successful, the core campaign against heresy, the Counter-Reformation, was unsuccessful and very costly. Bainton (1960: 173) correctly highlights war exhaustion in Europe, but this exhaustion was largely on the side whose goals went unrealized (the Catholics). Bainton (1960: 178) also correctly points out that Enlightenment-styled “universal peace” could not be exclusively Christian—but Christian states did not espouse such universalism until Christian holy wars had clearly failed. For example, it was not until the mid-16th century, well after the last Crusade, did European states begin to recognize the Ottoman Empire as a European major power.30 Furthermore, Catholic political entities did not finally recognize Protestantism as co-equal until the 1648 Peace of Westphalia31 (except in England where religious civil war raged until 1651), by which time the Counter-Reformation’s futility was well established. None of these sentiments of toleration would have emerged but for the string of defeats for the central church, first in the Middle East, then within Europe. The holy war ethic was not repudiated formally, but instead withered away from desuetude. The first unequivocal repudiation of the holy war ethic by the Catholic Church was in 2006 by Pope Benedict XVI, asserting that “spreading the faith through violence … is incompatible with the nature of God and nature of

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the soul” (quoted in Popovski, Reichberg, and Turner, 2009: 156). By this point, however, the news was hardly earth-shattering. Return to just war tradition as prevailing ethic The Christian justification of war to eradicate heresy and defend (or even propagate) the faith remained prevalent until the 13th century, when the Decretalist school finally began incorporating a coherent solution to the Muslim problem into the Church’s existing legal canon. In 1234, Raymond of Peñafort greatly emphasizes whether war is necessary and even accepts the notion of punishing Christians who commit sins against Muslims (Summa de casibus poenitentiae ii, secs. 17-18, in Reichberg, Syse, and Begby, 2006: 134–44). But the real reining-in of the holy war ethic begins with Thomas Aquinas. In Aquinas’s time, theological literature is developing from expositions and analyses of individual rulings into comprehensive, encyclopedic-length compilations of Christian philosophy. Thus war’s treatment in his mammoth Summa Theologica (Aquinas, 1952) is situated within the broader context of fraternally correcting the sins of hatred, apathy, and envy. War is one of several sins against peace, which also include discord, contention, schism, strife, and sedition. Aquinas reduces just war theory to three essential criteria: In order for a war to be just, three things are necessary. First, the authority of the sovereign by whose command the war is to be waged…. And as the care of the common weal is committed to those who are in authority, it is their business to watch over the common weal of the city, kingdom or province subject to them. And just as it is lawful for them to have recourse to the material sword in defending that common weal against internal disturbances, when they punish evil-doers, [here follows a passage from Romans 13:4] … so too, it is their business to have recourse to the sword of war in defending the common weal against external enemies…. Secondly, a just cause is required, namely that those who are attacked should be attacked because they deserve it on account of some fault. Therefore Augustine says …: “A just war is usually described as one that avenges wrongs, when a nation or state has to be punished, for refusing to make amends for the wrongs inflicted by its subjects, or to restore what is has seized unjustly.” Thirdly, it is necessary that the belligerents should have a right intention, so that they intend the advancement of good, or the avoidance of evil. Hence Augustine says …: “True religion does not look upon as sinful those wars that are waged not for motives of aggrandizement, or cruelty, but with the object of securing peace, of punishing evil-doers, and of uplifting the good.” For it may happen that the war is declared by the legitimate authority, and for a just cause, and yet be rendered unlawful through a wicked intention. (Aquinas, 1952: pt. ii–ii, q. 40, art. 1; citations omitted)

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In articulating these three celebrated just war criteria, Proper Authority, Just Cause, and Right Intent, Aquinas reclaims the Augustinian conception of war as a means of securing peace and justice.32 The writings of Aquinas’s contemporaries and students reflect his strong influence. Albertus Magnus writes on peace as the goal of war; Vincent of Beauvais on war’s necessity to preserve liberty and territory and increase dignity; Peter of Auvergne on domination as the means to an end, not the end in itself (Russell, 1975: 264–5). Ptolemy of Lucca (1997: paras. 1101, 1104) argues that maintaining an army to defend against external aggression and preserve justice is simply good government. Giles of Rome characterizes defense against aggression and preservation of order as divine virtues (De Regimine Principum, bk. 3, chap. 3, sec. 23, in Russell, 1975: 266). The Thomist just war tradition, now reclaimed from its more militant cousin (the holy war tradition), has anchored not only most subsequent treatments of war in Christian ethics from Aquinas’s time to today, but also secular jus ad bellum. During the Renaissance, as the Holy Roman Empire’s hold over Italian cities weakened and Italy ascended to cultural supremacy, so too did Italian jurisconsults emerge as the foremost authorities on the justice of war. Being Catholic, their writings reflect the strong influence of Catholicism (and at this point in history, Western Christianity). But among this literature’s lay authors, the attitude that only the Pope and Holy Roman Emperor (the only officials lacking any earthly superior) had the authority to make war began to erode as stronger and more independent nations and city-states emerged. In the 14th century, Bartoli of Sassoferato argues that independent Italian cities have the right to wage war (1 FHIG 343, 574-5; see also Sereni, 1943: 87).33 Albericus of Rosate similarly argues that because France, England, and Aragon lie outside the Empire, they also have this right (Sereni, 1943: 87). Giovanni da Legnano (1917) regards any declaration of war by an independent sovereign as lawful (see also Sereni, 1943: 88–91). In 1455, Martino da Lodi goes further, regarding war as lawful if the belligerent is unable otherwise to enforce its rights (De bello; see Sereni, 1943: 91).34 The post-Reformation Catholic just war tradition After Lodi, legal treatises are evenly divided between clerical works (under direct Church auspices) and lay works. We begin with clerical works. Tommaso de Vio (Cardinal Cajetan) takes the extreme approach of war as an instrument of punishment (Reichberg, Syse, and Begby, 2006: 240–50). But the trajectory of just war thinking is forever altered by two short works by Spanish Jesuit law professor Francisco de Vitoria: De Indis (On the Indians) and De Iure Belli (On the Law of War) (Vitoria, 1991a, b).35 Taking Spain’s conquest of the New World as its entry point (and devastatingly scrutinizing the conquistadors’ subjugation of the natives), Vitoria treats war not merely as punishment for wrongdoing as Cajetan does, but also as an instrument of self-defense, defense of others, recovery of things wrongfully taken, and eradication of evil. In the most comprehensive

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treatment of war since Aquinas, Vitoria combines all these facets of just war into a single package, together with an exposition of righteous means for accomplishing these goals. Additionally, Vitoria is the first to link just war theory to natural law, thus providing the first foundation of modern international law.36 The following century, another Spanish Jesuit professor, Francisco Su´arez, treats war within the larger framework of the three theological virtues: faith, hope, and charity, with just war falling under charity (De Bello: Su´arez, 1944). Su´arez affirms the theoretical approach to war to procure justice, but he goes further in recasting “justice” from retributive (simple punishment or eradicating evil) to vindicative (remediating faults or injuries). He further introduces the criterion “right manner” in place of the traditional Thomist “right intent” (1944: chap. 1, sec. 7), setting the stage for the introduction of additional, non-Thomist criteria in modern just war literature. One of these is that the war must be necessary (that is, that the injury cannot be remediated in any other way); this is the forerunner of the modern criterion “last resort.” Another, which Su´arez regards as more important for judging offensive wars, is that likelihood of victory must be balanced against risk of further suffering should the war fail; this principle evolved into “reasonable prospect of success.” Finally, although Su´arez is not the first to examine war’s execution alongside justification (Vitoria is), he successfully merges the two by linking charitable conduct in warfare to overall justice of the war effort (1944: chap. 7). From this merger is born the modern criterion “just means.” Thus I submit that the real father of modern just war theory in Christian thought is Su´arez, with Aquinas and Augustine as grandfather and great-grandfather, respectively, and Vitoria akin to an influential great uncle. Indeed, Hensel’s (2010b: 42–60) detailed chapter-length analysis of the just war tradition draws much more heavily from Vitoria and Su´arez than from Aquinas. Modern Catholic war ethics The war ethic of Protestantism is drawn heavily from that of the Catholic Church, but Protestantism specifically is taken up in the next section. For now, we focus on contemporary war ethics in the Catholic church. After Vitoria and Su´arez, most period treatises on the law of nations begin with an orthodox treatment of religious sources of just war theory, including the Bible, Augustine, and Aquinas, often citing theological works. Even the first and venerated systematic treatise of international law by Grotius (1925) takes this approach. Grotius was writing in the early 17th century, when the naturalist approach to the law of nations still prevails, so frequently citing the Bible is expected. But his use of Catholic works to construct a foundation for an international law of war is remarkable, for Grotius was a Protestant writing at a time and place where Protestantism was well entrenched, affording a relative amount of freedom to profess his faith. In contrast, Grotius does not mention works of the major founders of the Protestant movement, Martin Luther and John Calvin.37 After Su´arez, the development of ad bellum ethics in Western Christendom took place largely in secular treatises of international law, including the works of

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Grotius (mentioned above) and Pufendorf (1934) in the 17th century and Vattel (1995), Wolff (1934), and Burlemaqui (2001) in the 18th century—though these latter three drew little from scripture or other Christian thought directly and Vattel’s treatise is widely credited with inaugurating the positive international law movement that rejected the use of natural law in statecraft. The Western church itself had little further to say about ethics of war until the 20th century, when the just war tradition began its reclamation in works by Vanderpol (1919) and Ramsey (1961, 1968). In the modern Catholic Church, with the holy war ethic not only fallen into desuetude but also now overtly repudiated, neither the pacifist nor just war traditions have emerged as completely dominant. Catholic just war iterations have been diluted—some might argue, polluted—by expressions of pacifism (Webster and Cole, 2004: chap. 6). The modern Catechism of the Catholic Church (2003: pt. 3, sec. 2, chap. 2, art. 5, secs. 2308-9) concedes war’s justifiability for selfnecessity, but under headings such as “avoiding war” and “safeguarding peace” and avoiding even direct reference to Aquinas. The list of “strict conditions for legitimate defense” in section 2309 does not even restate the Thomist just war tradition completely. This development is somewhat puzzling, as Aquinas was a Doctor of the Catholic Church. Although the policy positions and political influence of the Catholic Church in the United States is not necessarily typical of the same in the preponderance of more strongly Catholic countries, the positions by the American Catholic bishops well illustrate the tensions between the pacifist and just war ethics in Catholic thought. In 1983, the National Conference of Catholic Bishops (now the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops), in its pastoral letter The Challenge of Peace, professed a heavy burden for overcoming the “presumption against war,” which they claim permeates the moral obligations of statecraft today (National Conference of Catholic Bishops, 1983: sec. ii(D)(2)).38 They restate the just war tradition including its modern, Su´arezian criteria, but they also introduce another: “comparative justice.” In this criterion, no cause is recognized as absolutely just or unjust and the values at stake must override the presumption against war (id.: para. 92). One may conclude simply from the number of additional criteria (eight, vice the original three) that the threshold for satisfying the just war tradition is significantly higher than before. In addition, pacifism is reflected in other treatments of the Catholic war ethic, both official and scholarly. For example, a 10thanniversary follow-up to The Challenge of Peace, titled The Harvest of Justice is Sown in Peace, is virtually devoid of any just war thinking (United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 1993). The foregoing yields the hypothesis that the Catholic ad bellum war ethic is restrictive. Had the holy war ethic remained prominent in Catholic thought, the prevailing war ethic would likely be a tension of all three ethics, with the holy war and pacifist ethics cancelling each other out. Under such conditions, Catholicism would likely have no relationship to armed conflict initiation. But with the holy war ethic fallen away, the Catholic war ethic now is a tension between the just war tradition—which is neither permissive nor restrictive—and the highly

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restrictive ethic of pacifism. Therefore we should expect Catholicism to be negatively associated with states’ propensities to initiate interstate armed conflicts. As Catholicism is the predominant branch of Christianity as a whole, we expect the relationship of Catholicism to first use of force to be the main driver of the same relationship of Christianity as a whole. Some empirical results for Christianity overall were presented in Chapter 3, in the context of comparing effects of Christianity relative to those of other religions. This chapter digs deeper into effects of Christianity overall and its major branches individually. For a list of states identified as “Christian” according to criteria set forth in the previous chapters, see the tables in Appendix A. These tables identify states having regime preferences for Christianity or any major branch of it, according to the data on Government Religious Preference (GRP) introduced in Chapter 3. As seen from those tables, the majority of Christian states are located in the Americas, Europe, sub-Saharan Africa, and Oceania. This makes Christianity the most dispersed religion of the three that are tested in this book. We begin with Christianity as a whole. We have already seen from Chapter 3 that a binary Christian Preference is negatively associated with first use of force, though not consistently at 95% confidence in all models. We also have seen that greater Christian GRP scores are negatively—and consistently—associated with first use of force. But this latter regression does not distinguish between Christian states with stronger and weaker Christian preferences. In isolating Christianity’s effects on states’ decisions to initiate armed conflicts, we are more interested in distinguishing between Christian states with weak preferences for Christianity and Christian states with strong preferences. Table 4.1 does this. In three of the four models, a state’s greater partisanship toward Christianity (any denomination) is shown to be negatively associated with initiation of interstate armed conflict. In the fourth model, measuring only deadly armed conflicts but incorporating many controls, Christianity’s negative association also holds, but at a slightly relaxed threshold of confidence (p,.052, cf. the standard p,.05). The stronger the regime preference for Christianity, the less likely the state resorts to force against another state. These results also are revealing in two other ways. First, Christianity’s negative correlation is stronger for armed conflicts involving fatalities than for all armed conflicts (including those not involving fatalities). This is the expected result for any restrictive war ethic; a war ethic that predisposes the actor against using force should constrain use of force at a high threshold more strongly than at a low threshold. Second, Christianity’s coefficients in the B models are notably weaker than those in the A models. The same is true for coefficients of the A models’ control variables. This outcome suggests two things: (1) that the Rule of 3 approach in constructing the A models does not adequately mask out as many potentially confounding variables; and (2) that Christian ethics—measured indirectly by Christian GRP score—likely influence many more political characteristics and outcomes than merely propensity to use military force. Figure 4.1 graphs the estimated probability of initiating an interstate armed conflict against the Christian GRP score for states with Christian regime

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Table 4.1 RELogit regression on Christian Preferred GRP score.

Christian Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

2.1322 (.0225)***

2.0742 (.0238)** 2.1628 (.0368)*** .3562 (.1204)** .4682 (.0931)*** 2.0785 (.0504)

2.0561 (.0098)***

.2288 (.0291)*** .8158 (.0212)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)b Pseudo-R-squaredb

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict) 2.0821 (.0422)a .8828 (.1883)*** .2444 (.1438) 2.1843 (.0777)*

2.0304 (.0114)** 2.0661 (.0182)*** 2.0220 (.0088)* .1238 (.1490)

2.0433 (.0205)* 2.0051 (.0122) 2.1685 (.2881)

.0768 (.2889) .7522 (.2442)**

.2650 (.5759) .9890 (.3841)*

2.8626 (.2645)**

2.9059 (.6375) 2.0169 (.0587) 2.5323 (.0400)*** 1.2811 (.3503)***

.1654 (.0387)*** 2.8273 (.0315)***

24.4827 (.3516)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2076.57

.1999 (.0428)*** 2.5549 (.0283)*** 1.6378 (.2081)*** .3310 (.1950) .8595 (.1612)*** 1.3596 (.2159)*** .2164 (.1989) 2.2871 (.0196)*** 24.2603 (.4438)*** 1,014,361 25,040 4316.00

24.7394 (.4829)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1333.73

1,014,361 25,040 2440.52

.2395

.3250

.2198

.3103

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.8195 (.2966)** .9333 (.2305)*** 1.7068 (.3269)*** .4425 (.2884) 2.3010 (.0320)*** 23.3196 (.5772)

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a p,.052. b Diagnostics via logit command.

preferences. The effect of Christian partisanship is visible and significant. In Model 1B (any armed conflict, “Kitchen-Sink” controls), the estimated probability of using force first in any given directed-dyad year is about .0003 for a hypothetical Christian state that practices religion-state separation, treats all religions equally, and allows complete religious freedom for all religions (corresponding to a GRP score of 4 on the 0–10 scale). For a hypothetical Christian

97

.0004 0

.0002

Pr (Y=1)

.0006

.0008

The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Christian GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 4.1 RELogit regression on Christian Preferred GRP score.

state with the maximum Christian preference—Christianity is official, Christian education is required, and Christianity is highly favored and other religions severely repressed—its probability of using force is estimated at just under .0002, a decrease of one-third. In Model 2B (same controls but for fatal armed conflicts), the respective probabilities are .0001 for the separationist Christian state and .00005 for the maximally partisan Christian state, a decrease of one-half. The results just shown are for all branches of Christianity combined. Protestantism and Orthodox Christianity are taken up separately later in this chapter. We now measure relationships of Catholicism specifically. Table 4.2 does this, reporting regressions of first use of force on Catholic GRP score for countries in which Catholicism is Preferred. The coefficients for Catholic GRP are uniformly negative and significant. This finding strongly supports the hypotheses that the contemporary Catholic war ethic is fundamentally restrictive and that as such, states that are more susceptible to its influence are less likely to initiate interstate armed conflicts than states that are less susceptible, or not susceptible at all. Consistently with Christianity, the coefficients are weaker in the B models than the A models (reflecting the many factors that must be filtered out to isolate Western Christianity), but they are more strongly negative for Model 2 (fatal armed conflicts) than for Model 1 (all armed conflicts). The acid test for a restrictive war ethic is whether its coefficient is negative and significant in Model 2B, in which the dependent variable (DV) is initiation of a deadly armed conflict—for pacifism is concerned chiefly with the taking of human life—and the controls are sufficiently numerous to well isolate the

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Table 4.2 RELogit regression on Catholic Preferred GRP score.

Catholic Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

2.1018 (.0228)***

2.0690 (.0220)** 2.1489 (.0365)*** .3677 (.1205)** .4622 (.0928)*** 2.0853 (.0507)

.8972 (.1893)*** .2347 (.1443) 2.1958 (.0784)*

2.0295 (.0114)*

2.0428 (.0203)*

2.0668 (.0093)***

.2272 (.0304)*** 2.8175 (.0212)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

2.0774 (.0161)***

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict) 2.0847 (.0409)*

2.0253 (.0085)** .1171 (.1436)

2.0079 (.0114) 2.1723 (.2807)

.0669 (.2869) .7678 (.2406)**

.2493 (.5665) 1.0069 (.3860)**

2.8587 (.2657)**

2.8995 (.6333) 2.0185 (.0594) 2.5292 (.0397)*** 1.3626 (.3537)***

.1549 (.0416)*** 2.8290 (.0316)***

24.5597 (.3685)*** 1,014,077 25,040 2083.74

.2001 (.0432)*** 2.5526 (.0283)*** 1.6913 (.2104)*** .1919 (.1953) .9009 (.1595)*** 1.4096 (.2066)*** .2676 (.1962) 2.2876 (.0196)*** 24.3066 (.4481)*** 1,014,077 25,040 4320.43

24.7007 (.5149)*** 1,014,077 25,040 1319.27

.4886 (.2808) 2.3013 (.0319)*** 23.3359 (.5891)*** 1,014,077 25,040 2380.72

.2365

.3249

.2177

.3105

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.6542 (.3029)* .9839 (.2311)*** 1.7529 (.3032)***

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

religion from other confounding factors. In those terms, Catholic GRP meets the stringent requirements of that test. Its coefficient in Model 2B is significant and negative, more so than in Model 2A in which non-lethal uses of force are included. Its coefficient is also more strongly negative and more significant in Model 2B than the coefficient for Christianity as a whole. But curiously, the same is not true for the other models, in which Catholic GRP is more weakly negative than Christian GRP. As shall be seen in the results on Protestantism and

99

0

.0002

Pr (Y=1) .0004 .0006

.0008

The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Catholic GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 4.2 RELogit regression on Catholic Preferred GRP score.

Orthodoxy, coefficients for Christianity are more strongly negative than those for any of its individual branches (Catholic GRP in Model 2B is the sole exception). This result suggests that in less stringent models than Model 2B, the constraining influence of Christianity as a whole is stronger than the influences—restrictive or permissive—of any of Christianity’s individual branches. Figure 4.2 graphs the estimated probability of first use of force against Catholic Preferred GRP. In each model, the predicted probability of first use of force is lower for a Catholic state practicing state-religion separation than for a similar Christian state. For states with maximally partisan religious regime preferences, the predicted probabilities for Catholic states are not significantly different than those for Christian states—and in Model 1A the predicted probability for the Catholic state is actually higher. These results suggest that more secularized Catholic states use force less often than similarly secularized Christian states overall. They also suggest that highly religious Catholic states may be more indifferent to, or even more favorable toward, resorting to non-lethal force than similarly religious Christian states overall. The Protestant just war tradition The two major founders of Protestantism, Martin Luther and Jean Chauvin (Anglicized John Calvin), both were raised and trained in the Catholic Church, with the Catholic just war tradition firmly entrenched in their ideologies. Both broke from Rome and established separate denominations (Lutheran and

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The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

Reformed, respectively) within the newly emerged Protestant branch of Christianity.39 Both were strongly influenced by the political thought of Augustine, and neither departed radically from his writings, though both viewed the use of force somewhat less contritely than Augustine did. There are several differences between the early Lutheran and Calvinist theories of just war, however. To Luther, law and “the sword” (i.e. government) are essential for containing human wickedness and society/community cannot survive without them (Porter, 1974: 8). True Christians, he writes, have no need for the law or the sword, but everyone else—which practically speaking is everyone—needs both to restrain sinners from actualizing their wicked proclivities. Luther therefore encourages Christians to participate in temporal authority structures, not withdraw from them (Luther, 1974a: 53–8). Those authority structures have a duty to deal justly with evildoers (punishing them without injuring the innocent) and make war only for public interest, never private (id.: 65–6). Likening war to amputation, whereby a part must be destroyed to preserve the greater whole, Luther concludes that God created the institution of war as a means to enforce peace and goodness: For the very fact that the sword has been instituted by God to punish the evil, protect the good, and preserve peace … is powerful and sufficient proof that war and killing along with all the things that accompany wartime and martial law have been instituted by God. What else is war but the punishment of wrong and evil? [Why] does anyone go to war, except because he desires peace and obedience? (1974b: 102, citing Romans 13:1-4, 1 Peter 2:13-4) These and other writings form the basis for a relatively curt, unequivocal endorsement of the just war tradition in Lutheranism’s founding documents. The 1529 Larger Catechism affirms the divine ordination of the state’s function to punish wrongdoing (“God has delegated his authority to punish evil-doers to civil magistrates”; sec. 181, in Book of Concord, 1959: 389). The 1530 Augsburg Confession states it more plainly: “Christians may without sin occupy civil offices … punish evildoers with the sword, engage in just wars, serve as soldiers” (art. 16, in Book of Concord, 1959: 37; emphasis added). In contrast, early Calvinist thought takes a more expansive view on war’s legitimacy, occasionally even straying into holy war territory. Whereas Luther regards the sword simply as a constituent part of the political authority that is ordained by God to restrain sin, Calvin treats the power of the sword itself as divinely ordained, calling upon Christian civil magistrates to take up arms if necessary to discharge their official functions (Calvin, 1948: bk. 4, chap. 20, sec. 11). Those functions include defense from enemy attack and judicial punishment of wrongdoing, but as Calvin articulates them, they also could be interpreted to include suppressing heresy and other doctrines inimical to order (id.: secs. 11-12). This is a more militant war ethic than Luther’s, reflecting Calvin’s ambition to create a political society directly inspired by his religious beliefs. Whereas Luther (1974b: 108–10) argues that true Christians are passive,

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leaving God to punish tyrants by having others rise up and depose or kill them, Calvin (1948: bk. 4, chap. 20, sec. 6) asserts that God may depose tyrants by calling up his own servants. Furthermore, in Calvinist political theory, the civil magistrate is responsible for protecting not only the people’s physical well-being but also the moral fabric of society. Because civil magistrates hold offices in accordance with divine law and are ordained with God’s wisdom (Calvin, 1948: bk. 4, chap. 20, sec. 10),40 the first duty of civil authority is to uphold God’s law. Calvin writes, “No government can be happily constituted, unless its first object be the promotion of piety” (1948: bk. 4, chap. 20, sec. 11). The militant streak of early Calvinism is also evident in the works of John Knox (Mason, 1994), founder of the Presbyterian Church in Scotland, from which other Presbyterian churches trace their roots. Curiously, the earliest Reformed confessional documents—the Scots Confession of 1560 (Presbyterian Church (USA), 2014: secs. 3.01-3.251) and Heidelberg Catechism of 1562 (id.: secs. 4.001-4.129)—contain no just war doctrine. Its first appearance in any Reformed confession is in the 1647 Westminster Standards of the Presbyterian Church (id.: secs. 6.001-6.178). Like the foundational documents of the Lutheran church, the Westminster Standards’ formula is curt and unassuming: It is lawful for Christians to accept and execute the office of a magistrate, when called thereunto; … as they ought especially to maintain piety, justice, and peace, … so, for that end, they may lawfully … wage war upon just and necessary occasion. (Presbyterian Church (USA), 2014: sec. 6.128) But unlike its Lutheran counterparts, the Westminster Standards mention maintenance of piety as a government function. This ethic, strictly applied, also strays into holy war territory. The same tension between the just war tradition and pacifism shown above for Catholicism is evident in many contemporary Protestant treatments, especially official ones in the United States. The 1983 Catholic pastoral letter mentioned above spawned publications by other prominent American denominations, which unanimously railed against nuclear warfare and the nuclear arms race. For example, documents of the United Methodist Council of Bishops (1986) and the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) (1988) purport to maintain the just war tradition alongside pacifism, but like their Catholic counterparts, they begin with the presumption against war and are so fixated on nuclear warfare that they do not engage seriously the possibility of a just war under other circumstances.41 The Methodist church, in its Book of Discipline, sweepingly asserts that “war is incompatible with the teaching and example of Christ” (United Methodist Church, 2004: sec. 165; emphasis added). All major American Protestant denominations situate the just war ethic among theories and/or ethics of peace or “just peace.”42 Yet intra-denominational tensions exist also. For example, the Methodist Book of Discipline goes on to concede war’s justifiability against genocide and unprovoked aggression (United Methodist

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Church, 2004: sec. 165). Several churches’ responses to the Kosovo War of 1999, in which NATO bombed Yugoslavia to stop ethnic cleansing, were so equivocal as to paralyze those denominations from taking institutional positions on it (Brown, 2008: 176).43 The hesitance, reluctance, or outright hostility to the just war ethic expressed by much of the American Protestant ecclesiastical leadership is incongruous with the earlier Protestant tendency toward greater tolerance of using force.44 This could reflect genuine moves toward institutional pacifism. It also could reflect, however, the formation of policy in an environment of political socialization of mainstream Christian institutions away from endorsing or legitimizing any political violence, especially by the superpower, the United States. Within the classical literature, however, variances between Catholic and Protestant war ethics are more visible. In totality, the classical Protestant literature appears to be less restrained, especially the founding literature of the Reformed branch. Table 4.3 reports results of regressions on GRP score for the composite category Extended Protestant (encompassing Protestant, Anglican, and Pentecostal), in which any of those three denominations is the state’s Preferred religion (though only Protestantism and Anglicanism actually are). All of Protestantism’s coefficients are more weakly negative than those of Catholicism. Only the Model 1 coefficients (any armed conflict) have statistical significance; the Model 2 coefficients (deadly armed conflicts) are not significant.45 These results suggest that Protestantism exerts no restraining effect on initiation of deadly armed conflicts. There could be several reasons for this. The extreme pacifism of some Protestant denominations may be outweighed by the greater militarism of others. It is also possible that the Extended Protestant denominations simply do not influence state policy as strongly as Catholic denominations; indeed, Protestant states overall have a longer history of church-state separation than their Catholic counterparts. Another possibility is that Protestantism and Anglicanism actually do have negative relationships with first use of deadly force, but those relationships are obscured by the high conflict propensities of two great powers: the United Kingdom, and especially the United States. This explanation has empirical support—unreported regressions of the same models excluding observations in which the United States or United Kingdom is State 1 yielded strongly negative and significant coefficients for Extended Protestant Preferred GRP that were on par with those of Catholic Preferred GRP. When non-deadly armed conflicts are included (Model 1), Protestantism and Anglicanism are only mildly negatively associated with first use of force.46 This could suggest that one or both denominations exert a mild restraining effect only on the militarization of low-level conflicts, e.g. simple border crossings, blockades, or vessel seizures. There is moderate empirical support for this proposition. In unreported regressions of initiating non-deadly armed conflicts only, Extended Protestant Preferred GRP remains negative and significant in Model 1A, and negative and just missing significance in Model 1B (p,.07). This curious, nonintuitive result could signify that Protestant variants of the just war tradition (which pulls otherwise pacifist ethics toward greater militarism) actually are

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Table 4.3 RELogit regression on Extended Protestant Preferred GRP score.

Extended Protestant Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad? European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)b Pseudo-R-squaredb

Model 1A Model 1B Model 2A (initiate any (initiate any (initiate fatal armed conflict) armed conflict) armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.0625 (.0254)* 2.0520 (.0217)*

2.0590 (.0349)a

2.0598 (.0374)

.3967 (.1213)** .4890 (.0927)*** 2.0726 (.0500) 2.0750 (.0092)***

2.0314 (.0113)** 2.0238 (.0086)** .0932 (.1505) .0709 (.2862) .7397 (.2424)**

2.8357 (.2606)** .2540 (.0291)*** .1998 (.0437)*** .8210 (.0211)*** 2.5536 (.0282)*** 1.4847 (.2180)*** .2104 (.1984) .9216 (.1629)*** 1.4696 (.1979)*** .3173 (.1978) 2.2885 (.0195)*** 24.9761 24.4525 (.3467)*** (.4454)*** 1,014,361 1,014,361 25,040 25,040 2064.09 4264.00 .2335

.3242

.9138 (.1925)*** .2669 (.1450) 2.1749 (.0778)* 2.0912 (.0156)***

2.0459 (.0203)* 2.0063 (.0114) 2.2008 (.2862) .2591 (.5576) .9750 (.3866)* 2.8786 (.6191)

.1955 (.0396)*** 2.8353 (.0308)***

2.0168 (.0610) 2.5323 (.0401)*** 1.1109 (.3658)**

25.3227 (.4870)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1282.10

.6778 (.3065)* .9844 (.2289)*** 1.8191 (.2815)*** .5532 (.2886) 2.3027 (.0317)*** 23.5162 (.5986)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2206.39

.2114

.3095

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a p,.091. b Diagnostics via logit command.

restrictive enough to legitimize first use of force only for grave causes—causes which, if promoted by force, would justify the taking of lives when necessary. Figure 4.3 graphs the probability of first use of force against Extended Protestant Preferred GRP. Because the DV in Model 2B is not significant, we confine ourselves to discussing Model 1B. In that model, a hypothetical separationist

The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

0

Pr (Y=1) .0002 .0004

.0006

104

0

1

2

3 4 5 6 7 Extended Protestant GRP Score

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 4.3 RELogit regression on Extended Protestant Preferred GRP score.

state’s probability to resort to military force is about .00027. The same probability for a Protestant (or Anglican) state with the maximum Preferred GRP score is about .00019, a decrease of about one-third. Overall, however, Protestantism and Anglicanism do not appear to be contributing very strongly to Christianity’s negative effect on initiation of interstate armed conflict. This result could be attributable to differences between the Protestant and Catholic war ethics. It also could be attributable to practices of the United States and United Kingdom, both of which are Extended Protestant in their governing regime preferences. However, because the practices of the United States and United Kingdom also could be influenced by Protestantism and Anglicanism, the possibility that a more permissive Protestant/Anglican war ethic is driving these results cannot be ruled out.

The Orthodox Christian war ethic This chapter’s focus heretofore has been on the war ethic in Western Christianity, primarily because (1) the vast majority of Christian state-years in the system from 1946 through 2010 are Catholic, Protestant, or a mixture of them; and (2) their contemporary war ethics are very similar to each other (the new Catholic criterion of “comparative justice” notwithstanding). Such is not the case for Eastern Christianity, the war ethic of which originated from different sources and developed along a different trajectory. Accordingly, the war ethic in Eastern Orthodoxy now is given separate attention.47

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Among Orthodox clergy today, at least in the Anglophone world, there is an ongoing debate whether the Church is pacifist or simply acquiescent (Stoyanov, 2009). Webster (2003) has attempted to construct a just war tradition from Eastern Orthodox thought (see also Robinson, 2003: 40–61), but even he admits that the just war tradition has little support within the Orthodox Church in America or the Eastern Orthodox Church worldwide (Webster and Cole, 2004: 110–1). Webster characterizes the Orthodox war ethic as, at best, beset with “moral confusion,” pointing out how a document of the 2000 Jubilee Council of Russian Bishops “swings back and forth between militant Russian nationalism and patriotism, on the one hand, and excessive caution about the military on the other” (id.: 112). Webster further highlights inconsistencies by renowned Orthodox pacifist Stanley Harakas, who has been extremely hostile to any military operation yet concedes that the United States must defend the innocent in the wake of 9/11 (id.: 113–4). Stoyanov (2009: 206, n. 86), in contrast, views the Russian bishops’ document as the first systematic just war tradition in Eastern Orthodoxy.48 Proponents of both sides of the debate, however, agree that no systematic Orthodox just war tradition developed like that of Western Christianity. Stoyanov attributes this divergence to differing geopolitical conditions within the Eastern and Western Roman empires; the threat to the West’s survival in Augustine’s time forced the Western church to develop a war ethic that the more secure Eastern church did not need. Thus the Eastern church mostly retained pre-Constantinian attitudes toward war. As such, its war ethic is founded not by Ambrose and Augustine, but Eusebius, Cyril of Alexandria, John Chrysostom, Athanasius of Alexandria, and Basil the Great (Stoyanov, 2009: 168–9). The 13th Canon of Basil the Great, who predated Augustine by a generation, was especially influential. Basil concedes that killing in warfare is morally distinguishable from voluntary murder, but still deems it “advisable” that soldiers who have killed be refused communion for three years (Stoyanov, 2009: 169). This anchors the Orthodox outlook on war as a “lesser evil,” cf. a “lesser good” (Webster, 2003; Webster and Cole, 2004). This doctrine was key in the Orthodox Church’s refusal to honor fallen Byzantine soldiers on par with holy martyrs in the 10th century, defying even the Emperor who had requested it. The doctrine of war as a lesser evil was periodically confirmed and validated as late as the 14th century (Matthew Blastares, Syntagma kata stoicheon, in Stoyanov, 2009: 170–2). By these indicators, the Orthodox war ethic would appear predominantly pacifist. However, the Church occasionally did make exceptions (Stoyanov, 2009: 171–8). One took place in the wake of the Byzantine Empire’s loss of Constantinople to the Latins during the Fourth Crusade: Patriarch Michael IV Autoreinaos promised remission of sins to fallen Nicene soldiers in the campaign to retake the city. The Church also canonized several military figures, such as St. George, St. Demetrius of Thessaloniki, St. Theodore Teron, and St. Theodore Stratelates, and the military aristocracy adopted these saints as their patrons. As early as 527, the Byzantine state relied on the Church for support in providing chaplains, blessing standards and weapons before battle, conducting funerals, and

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giving ritual thanksgiving after military victory. These factors themselves do not point conclusively toward a Byzantine holy war ethic analogous to that of the Latin Church, but they do undermine the position that Orthodoxy was consistently pacifist. In addition, Byzantine political and religious ideologies were commingled in Byzantine political theology. The Emperor—a political leader—was extolled as the vicar of Christ and God’s chosen ruler to lead and defend the Christian Roman empire, itself an earthly replica of the divine heavenly monarchy. The Emperor was the Defender of the True Faith (Stoyanov, 2009: 179–80, n. 32). Contemporaneous Byzantine military treatises reflect the Orthodox stance on warfare. However, they lack any systematically developed justification of warfare in Christianity, nor was there any attempt to systematize a war ethic within the Byzantine Church itself (id.: 182–3). More pertinent is the canonization of warrior-princes (id.: 184). Grand Prince Alexander Nevsky of Novgorod successfully defended medieval Russia against German and Nordic invaders. Grand Prince Dmitri Donskoi of Moscow, so named for the site of his greatest military victory, defeated the Tatars and was the first Muscovite prince to openly challenge Mongol authority. Prince Stefan Lazar of Serbia led his army against the Ottomans in the Battle of Kosovo, and his son Prince Stefan Lazarevi´c led military campaigns as an Ottoman vassal. Whether they were canonized specifically for their military exploits is disputed,49 but they nevertheless were political figures and canonized for their political acts. As hagiography is a valid source of Orthodox tradition, a tradition of commingling church and state—and the consequent commingling of religious and nationalist war ethics—should be expected to emerge in Orthodoxy. This is what happened. After the 1453 fall of Constantinople and the Byzantine Empire, the situs of Orthodox political theology migrated to Russia, inaugurating the theory that Moscow was the next rightful successor to Roman imperium (“the Third Rome”). The status of the Russian church was linked to the status of the Russian state; it took the rise of the Russian Empire under Ivan IV (the Terrible) for the Eastern Orthodox Church to elevate the metropolitan of Moscow to the rank of Patriarch (Stoyanov, 2009: 188). But church-state commingling in Russia was not a theocracy as was the case with prince-bishops in Montenegro (1516–1852; id.: 192); rather, the commingling took the form of state control over the church. Emperor Peter I (the Great), acting as Defender of Orthodoxy, brought the Russian patriarchate under state control and thereafter the Russian state ran the church as a government ministry. Under state control, Russian Orthodoxy (along with Eastern Orthodoxy) became more nationalist. As the land of the Third Rome, Russia had already championed Ottoman-Orthodox vassals, and this role grew more overt after the 1774 Treaty of Kuchuk-Kainardji in which Russia secured the right to intervene in Ottoman affairs to protect Orthodox interests.50 This Russia did forcefully: in 1817 it secured Serb autonomy under its protection, and in 1829 it forced the Ottomans to recognize the autonomy of Greece, Moldavia, and Wallachia also.51 The Napoleonic Wars took on religious tones in Russia, with Alexander I casting

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Napoleon as the enemy of Orthodoxy. Such nationalist sentiment is evident in other Orthodox states as well, e.g. Serbia and Greece. The best known Eastern Orthodox work on ethics of war in Serbia is that of the early 20th century bishop Nikolai Velimirovi´c, whom the Serbian Orthodox Church canonized in 2003. Velimirovi´c claims that the Orthodox military effort in the Balkans from the Battle of Kosovo to World War I (1389–1918) had the backing of Christ, to protect the faith from encroachment by Islam (Stoyanov, 2009: 197–8, nn. 58–62). Greece has experienced similar conflict proneness: it has had a historically high conflict propensity with Turkey (owing in part to a legacy of Ottoman repression) and Greek Orthodox nationalism was a strong factor in the failed bid to unify Cyprus with Greece (the enosis movement of the 1970s). In the early period of Russia’s rise, a concept of just war began to crystallize in the form of legitimate defense and liberation (Stoyanov, 2009: 194–9), though unlike the situation of the Western church today in which the just war tradition is intertwined with pacifism, the Russian just war ethic was intertwined with “belief in the inviolability of frontiers and war as the judgement of God” (id.). Even this low level of restraint did not last, however: Peter the Great Westernized Russian military thinking as part of his design to Westernize the Russian empire, thus secularizing that thinking for good. In addition, the Russian church was severely suppressed under the Communists, revived briefly only to boost national support and mobilization during World War II. Robinson’s (2003: 62–75) survey of Russian just war thought reveals its dependence on the state; the very little independent thought in this area originates not from the Russian Orthodox Church, but from Russian literature (Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Solzhenitsyn) and secular philosophy (Vladimir Solovyev, Ivan Il’in). Despite these lay works’ heavily religious undertones, Robinson argues persuasively that the dominant war ethic in Russia is simply Realism. I submit that the war ethics in other predominantly Orthodox states have experienced similar trajectories, even if not all experienced Communist suppression. The Orthodox war ethic, to the extent that there is any coherent one, is likely either realist (war justifiable in pursuit of national interest) or simply irrelevant (the Church has no influence on state practice). Table 4.4 reports regressions of first use of force on Orthodox Preferred GRP score. Figure 4.4, graphing Orthodox states’ propensities toward first use of force, is provided only for completeness. In contrast to negative coefficients for Christianity overall and Catholicism and Extended Protestantism, the coefficients for Orthodoxy are positive. However, Orthodoxy is significant only in one of the four models (Model 2B, fatal armed conflicts only, many controls). In unreported tests, I discovered that the positive and significant coefficient in Model 2B is driven by the specific situations of Greece (against Turkey) and Armenia (against Azerbaijan); when observations in which either country is State 1 are excluded, the Orthodox Preferred GRP coefficient in that model loses significance too (p,.195). These results suggest two possibilities. One is that Orthodoxy exerts little influence on states’ preferences for war or peace. This possibility has two

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Table 4.4 RELogit regression on Orthodox Preferred GRP score.

Orthodox Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0140 (.0364)

.0253 (.0308)

.0783 (.0502)

.0866 (.0430)*

2.0789 (.0089)***

.2562 (.0285)*** 2.8243 (.0211)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

.8924 (.1891)*** .2678 (.1428) 2.1758 (.0777)*

2.0318 (.0113)** 2.0957 (.0149)*** 2.0278 (.0085)** .1037 (.1483)

2.0498 (.0208)* 2.0087 (.0111) 2.2060 (.2780)

.0725 (.2908) .7287 (.2456)**

.2629 (.5659) .9628 (.3911)*

2.8506 (.2679)**

2.8989 (.6343) 2.0069 (.0590) 2.5315 (.0404)*** 1.1983 (.3694)**

.1982 (.0395)*** 2.8372 (.0310)***

25.0415 (.3309)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2057.01

.2060 (.0434)*** 2.5547 (.0284)*** 1.5134 (.2221)*** .1750 (.1925) .8695 (.1631)*** 1.4817 (.1962)*** .3788 (.1962) 2.2895 (.0196)*** 24.5284 (.4375)*** 1,014,361 25,040 4438.57

25.4330 (.4669)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1283.17

.6487 (.2817)* 2.3036 (.0316)*** 23.6929 (.5590)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2451.43

.2325

.3238

.2116

.3098

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant

.3761 (.1203)** .4820 (.0921)*** 2.0738 (.0500)

.5610 (.2900) .9840 (.2305)*** 1.8065 (.2667)***

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

alternative explanations: (1) the Orthodox war ethic is indifferent to ad bellum outcomes; or (2) the Orthodox war ethic is highly deferential to the interests of the state, meaning the conflict propensities of Orthodox states are driven not by Orthodoxy but by the many other variables that these models control away. Given the discussion of the Orthodox war ethic above, the second alternative seems more likely. However, the theory that Orthodoxy has no influence is undermined

109

0

.0002

Pr (Y=1) .0004 .0006

.0008

The restrictive war ethic in Christianity

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Orthodox GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 4.4 RELogit regression on Orthodox Preferred GRP score.

by its positive, significant relationship to deadly interstate armed conflicts in Model 2B. As noted above, this result is driven chiefly by conflict propensities of Greece and Armenia, in which nationalism is a strong factor for each. Therefore, the other possible explanation for the empirical results shown above is that Orthodoxy raises states’ conflict propensities by stoking militant nationalism. Further inquiry on this point, in the form of case studies and process tracing, is called for.

Conclusion This chapter submits that the war ethic of Christianity overall is restrictive. Although a more militant war ethic prevailed during the Crusades, Reformation and Counter-Reformation, that war ethic fell into desuetude and now is repudiated. That being the case, the war ethic dominant in Christianity today is a tension between the just war ethic and pacifism. This makes it fundamentally restrictive. Within Christianity, however, there is considerable variance. The totality of scripture and other factors suggest a restrictive war ethic within Catholicism, and empirical tests reveal that Catholic Preferred GRP is negatively associated with initiation of interstate armed conflicts. The positions of (Extended) Protestantism and Orthodoxy are more complicated. A qualitative assessment of the Protestant war ethic is that it is somewhat less restrictive than that of Catholicism. This does not render Protestantism permissive—Protestant Preferred GRP coefficients are still negative—but it does weaken the coefficients’ significance. Protestantism is significant only in models covering all armed conflict; it appears to have no effect

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on states’ decisions to initiate deadly armed conflicts. The Orthodox war ethic appears on one hand to be more deferential to the state than those of the other branches, but also appears to support nationalism to a greater extent than the others (or at least, not to suppress it). Orthodoxy’s coefficients are all positive, but none are significant except for the model measuring deadly armed conflict only, and then only when many control variables are included (Model 2B). However, Orthodoxy’s significance in that model is being driven primarily by interstate conflicts in which Greek and Armenian nationalism are strong factors. In the next chapter, we take up the war ethic in Islam.

Notes 1 Many Catholics and Protestants consider non-mainstream sects such as the Latter-Day Saints and Jehovah’s Witnesses to lie outside Christianity because they either draw from additional canon not recognized in the other branches or deny the trinitarian nature of God or the divinity of Christ. However, these “liminal” denominations selfidentify as Christian and their war ethics are fully compatible with the Catholic and Protestant war ethics. Therefore, they are included with Christianity and Western Christianity for these purposes (see Brown, 2008: 10). No state has ever had a Liminal Christian majority or Preference during the time period studied, therefore war ethics specific to Liminal Christian denominations are treated no further here. 2 See Appendix B for the organization of the Bible in both Western and Orthodox Christianity. 3 The JB is itself a translation of the French Bible de J´erusalem (1956), a Catholicdriven modern direct translation of the original Hebrew/Greek. 4 Variants include “higher powers” or “higher authorities” in place of “governing authorities” (DR, NAB, KJV), “established” or “ordained” by God instead of “instituted” (DR, Knox, NAB, KJV, NIV), and “rebels against” or “opposes” authority in place of “resists” authority (Knox, NIV). The phrase “it is God’s servant for your good” appears in other translations as “he is God’s minister to thee, for good” (DR, KJV), “For he is God’s servant to do you good” (NIV), and “the magistrate is God’s minister, working for thy good” (Knox). 5 The more poetic KJV and DR read, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” 6 Until recently, the conventional wisdom among scholars of Christian just war theory had been that during Christianity’s earliest period, in which most Christians were poor and powerless, only pacifism was acceptable, both personally and in statecraft (Bainton, 1960). Many later authors fell into that trap, myself included (Brown, 2008: 18, 28). But Charles (2010) argues persuasively that early Christian pacifist writings were prescriptive, not descriptive. In Tertullian’s day, pacifism actually had to compete against a more permissive war ethic. I thank Daniel Heimbach for raising this point. 7 Not once is Jesus recorded as advising anyone to leave military service, not even Roman soldiers (Matthew 8:8-10). 8 A century and a half later, Eusebios takes a similar stance (Praeparatio Evangelica, sec. 192c, in Cadoux, 1982: 57). 9 Cyprian follows Tertullian’s lead in preaching non-violence notwithstanding Christians’ strength in numbers (Ad Demetrianum, secs. 17, 25, in Cadoux, 1982: 82).

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10 See Cadoux (1982: 191–3). Bainton (1960: 73–4) argues that early Christian prohibition of military service was motivated partially against idolatry, for officers were required to perform sacrifices honoring the deified Emperor. 11 See also Matthew 21:12-3; Mark 11:15-7; Luke 19:45. 12 Their function was to supply the half-shekels used to pay the Temple tax and the oxen, sheep, and birds that worshippers would sacrifice at the altar. 13 But again, this duty to submit is not unlimited; Paul does not advocate paying taxes, revenue, respect, or honor to those whom they are not due. 14 However, Augustine would apply this principle only to professional soldiers acting within the scope of their duties; a private person, who lacks authority to enforce law, is not permitted to kill even in self-defense, because doing so is to indulge the hatred and passion that a just warrior lacks. See Russell (1975: 18). 15 See Bederman (2001: 231–3); Nussbaum (1954: 10–11); Phillipson (2001, vol. 2: 332–9). The ceremonial procedures of the jus fetiale itself are documented largely in the works of Livy and Servius (1 FHIG 187). 16 Augustine elevates the glory of peace over that of war (Epistle ad Darium [Epistle 229], in Eppstein, 1935: 79). 17 For Cicero’s view, see Cicero (1961: bk. 1, chap. 11, sec. 35). 18 For Cicero’s summary of just causes for war, see Cicero (1998: bk. 3, chap. 23). 19 Augustine apparently does not apply that principle to Roman expansion, for he considers the Pax Romana to be God’s design (De Civitate Dei, in Augustine, 1952: bk. 18, chap. 22). 20 Cicero, in De Officiis, does not state this principle explicitly, but implies it by including proper procedure as a necessary criterion for a just war (Cicero, 1961: bk. 1, chap. 11, sec. 36). 21 I have defined Proportionality of Cause as requiring that the foreseeable good in curing the injustice outweigh the foreseeable harm expected, on both sides (Brown, 2008: chap. 7). Cf. National Conference of Catholic Bishops (1983: sec. 92), introducing “comparative justice,” in which justness of the belligerent’s cause must outweigh that of the other party—one side must be more “right” than the other. 22 Augustine interprets the vignettes of Jesus driving the merchants from the Temple and of God persecuting Saul (later Paul) as examples of God using coercive measures to achieve his goals (see Russell, 1975: 24). 23 The shared heritage of just war and holy war might raise concern whether Augustine’s war ethic itself is coherent, especially in light of my conclusions on the Buddhist war ethic. In Chapter 6, I argue that the mainstream Buddhist war ethic is internally inconsistent, thus impractical for application in temporal statecraft. In contrast, Augustine’s war ethic is not inconsistent; he simply takes a broader view of the scope of “injury” that could warrant war. In addition, Augustine’s war ethic straddles the fuzzy boundary between holy war and just war, whereas the Buddhist war ethic attempts to straddle a boundary between holy war and pacifism that does not exist, for the gulf between them is too wide. 24 The Lombards espoused the Arian sect of Christianity, which the central Church had rejected nearly three centuries beforehand. 25 Such a position is remarkably even-handed for its day; he may have in mind the Crusaders’ violation of their truce with the Saracens in 1187, which precipitated Saladin’s Holy War. 26 Huguccio, however, breaks with his contemporaries in arguing that the Crusades’ primary justification is infidels’ occupation of the Holy Land, not their beliefs.

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27 Wars to propagate Christianity were not new to the 13th century; the Danes had forced the pagan Wends to convert (1160–1168) and the Teutonic Knights fought for fifty years to Christianize the pagan Prussians. What is different about the 13th century is that it inaugurated a new pattern of eradicating unorthodox beliefs and doctrines within the faith. 28 In 1215, the Fourth Lateran Council affirmed the requirement that princes confiscate the property of heretics, on pain of excommunication (1 FHIG 591; see also Russell, 1975: 180). 29 The rebellion lacked support from more moderate Protestants—including from Luther (1974c), who roundly condemned it—and was suppressed. 30 First Franco-Turkish Capitulation (France-Turkey), Feb. 1535, 2 FHIG 71; see also Nussbaum (1954: 64–5). Kohn (1999: 215) argues that the first general acceptance of Turkish influence and power in Europe took place with a truce ending the Hungarian Civil War of 1540–1547. 31 Treaty of Peace (Holy Roman Empire-Sweden), Oct. 14(24), 1648 (“Treaty of Osnabruck”), 1 CTS 12; Treaty of Peace (France-Holy Roman Empire), Oct. 14(24), 1648 (“Treaty of M¨unster”), 1 CTS 271. 32 In the modern form of just war theory, Aquinas’s formulation of “just cause” is split into two criteria. First, there must be injury (“because they deserve it on account of some fault”); second, the use of force must proportionately remediate the injury (“because they deserve it on account of some fault”; emphasis added). I have labeled the latter criterion “proportionality of cause” (Brown, 2008: chap. 7); others have labeled it proportionality of “ends.” 33 However, Bartolus’ prot´eg´e Baldeschi of Ubaldis (Baldus) maintains that even though a king is “emperor within his realm,” only the Pope and the Emperor have the legal authority to wage war (see Sereni, 1943: 86–7; Nussbaum, 1954: 40). 34 This work is not available in English. 35 These two works were first delivered as lectures in 1539 and published posthumously in 1557. 36 Indeed, Scott (1934) argues that Vitoria, not Hugo Grotius, is the father of international law. 37 Perhaps Grotius was hostile to Calvinism due to its status as a rival sect within the Reformed branch of Protestantism (Grotius was an Arminian); perhaps he believed that the Catholic outlook on the law of nations had a certain pedigree and longevity—having withstood the test of time—that the comparatively new Protestant movements had not yet acquired. 38 Cole objects to this, arguing that the Catholic bishops misstate the moral presumption, which is actually against injustice, not war (Webster and Cole, 2004: 138). 39 The third major branch of Protestantism, the Anglican Church, broke from Rome largely for political reasons, not theological, and the war ethic in the 1571 Anglican Confession reflects Luther’s influence (Morkevicius, 2009: 228). 40 This outlook is further reflected in the Westminster Confession, sec. 1; the civil magistrate’s purpose is “for the defense and encouragement of them that are good, and for the punishment of evildoers” (Presbyterian Church (USA), 2014: sec. 6.127). 41 The Episcopal Diocese of Washington (1987) is more even-handed (though too charitable in assessing Soviet Cold War intentions), conceding reluctantly the moral acceptability of nuclear deterrence. 42 See also Lutheran Church in America (1984); but see Stelmachowicz (1986), attempting to reclaim the just war tradition in the Lutheran Church.

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43 The original texts, obtained in 2006–07 via internet, are no longer available. 44 I have had virtually no access to similar documents by Christian churches outside the United States. However, that non-U.S. churches would experience similar tensions seems self-evident. 45 The Extended Protestant Preferred GRP score in Model 2B is significant only at p,.091, which is too far afield from the standard 95% confidence interval for concluding that the null hypothesis is refuted. 46 The negative relationship is stronger and more significant when observations in which the United States or United Kingdom is State 1 are excluded. 47 Not all Eastern Christian churches, as classified by RCS, are Orthodox, strictly speaking. Examples include the Church of the East (aka Nestorian Church) and the non-Latin, Eastern rites practiced within the Roman Catholic Church. The Nestorian Church is too small to wield any significant effect on state-level outcomes. EasternRite Catholics (which are not included in measurements of Western Christianity) are significant in some countries. Despite their contemporary affiliations with the Roman Catholic Church, including them in measurements of Western war ethics is inappropriate, for many such churches developed under Orthodox tradition and joined the Catholic Church comparatively recently. For the purpose of this book, the Orthodox branch of Christianity solely represents Eastern Christianity. 48 In my view, Webster has the stronger claim. 49 Robinson (2003: 67) argues that Alexander Nevsky was canonized not for victory in war, but for making peace with the Mongols (a humiliating peace for the Russians). Stoyanov (2009: 185) notes the canonization of peacemaking, pacifist, and martyr princes, e.g. John Vladimir of Duklja, and Boris and Gleb of Kievan Rus. 50 Treaty of Kuchuk-Kainardji (Russia-Turkey), Jul. 16, 1774, arts. 7-8, 45 CTS 349, 368. 51 Treaty of Peace (Russia-Turkey), Sep. 14, 1829 [Treaty of Adrianople], arts. 5-6, 80 CTS 83, 87.

5

The permissive war ethic in Islam

Introduction Islam is the Prevalent or Preferred religion in about one quarter of the state-years in the international system from 1946 to 2010, making it the second most prominent world religion after Christianity. For a list of countries in which Islam is Preferred, see Appendix A. This chapter begins with an introduction to Islamic scripture and political ethics, then proceeds with an exploration of the Islamic war ethic specifically. Empirical analyses follow, in which Preferred Government Religious Preference (GRP) scores of Islam and its two largest branches are regressed on states’ propensities to initiate interstate armed conflicts. Those scores’ coefficients are positive in every model and significant in most—but not all. For Islam generally, the correlation is more certain when the threshold of armed conflict is low (any use of force, even trivial) than when the threshold is high (only fatal armed conflicts). The same is true for Shia Islam when tested in isolation. But for Sunni Islam the reverse is true: it is significant only at the high threshold (fatal armed conflicts). These results suggest that the Islamic war ethic overall is permissive—but where interstate conflict is concerned, perhaps not as permissive as Islam’s strongest critics would claim. Among the great debates over and within Islam today are whether or not Islam and the Islamic world are militant and whether or not the Islamic world will embrace a militant agenda in the future. Lewis (2002), for example, highlights the moderate-extremist divide within the Islamic world over whether its woes are selfinflicted or inflicted upon it by others. Ridgeon (2004) laments that the universalist and increasingly radical rhetoric garners greater media attention, and further highlights universalist efforts to silence modern expressions of Islamic pluralism. Ayoob (2008: 1), writing on contemporary political Islam, seeks to show that mainstream Islamist parties, which form the “overwhelming majority” of Islamic political organizations, “by and large abjure violence.” Morkevicius (2018: chap. 5) also weighs in on the question and concludes that the Islamic war ethic is far more restrained than its critics profess. But far too much literature is devoted to this question—and among Muslims themselves, not just in the West (Hashmi, 1996: 146)—to simply explain away Islamic militarism as a fringe ideology forced into the spotlight by extremism. Abou el Fadl (2007) and Tibi (2012), for example, lament that Islamic extremism has encroached and imposed itself on mainstream

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Islam. This is a difficult topic to address in the current sociopolitical and academic climates. On one hand, most full professors are old enough to remember the Iranian Revolution, the rise of political Islam, and the wave of Islamic terrorism from the 1980s through 9/11 and beyond. On the other hand, the several iterations of the Trump administration’s travel ban (beginning 2017) have stoked accusations, long in the making, of widespread, unjustified Islamophobia in popular culture. The tension between the just war ethic to justify war in self-defense and the holy war ethic to broaden the sphere of Islam has existed throughout Islamic history (Sachedina, 2002: 36). But treatments such as Sachedina’s that characterize the holy war ethic as an aberration from the Quranic precepts, engineered by Muslim rulers and jurists to justify territorial expansion, introduce tensions of their own. Cook (2005: 39–40) complains that Muslim apologists and Western scholars who seek to present Islam “as innocuously as possible” devote greater attention to non-forcible acts of jihad than is warranted by the treatment of jihad in classical Islamic texts. Cook claims that works in Arabic and other Muslimmajority languages present jihad as clearly militant (2005: 43). Furthermore, the Quran itself is a source of tension, for some verses sanction fighting (the Sword Verse(s)) whereas other verses call for reconciliation and/or limit the manner of fighting (the Peace/Forgiveness Verses; Aboul-Enein and Zuhur, 2004: 7). The early Caliphate took the view that the Sword Verses abrogated the Peace Verses—because they were revealed to Muhammad later in time—and Islamic extremists hold that view today (id.: 10–1; see also Kelsay, 2007: 3). There is empirical evidence of the effects of Islamic militarism today. Islam has fueled more than its fair share of interstate armed conflicts since 1945, e.g. Greece-Turkey, Israel-Arab states, Pakistan-India, and Somalia-Ethiopia (Pipes, 1983: 3). Furthermore, of the 42 religious civil wars from 1940 to 2000, 80% involved parties identifying with Islam, compared to only 50% for Christianity and 16% for Hinduism (Toft, 2007: 97). Toft attributes this statistic in part to jihad as a structural feature of Islam (id.). In this chapter, I take the position that the Islamic war ethic overall is more permissive than its defenders often claim, and this position is supported empirically in the greater propensity of Muslim states than non-Muslim states to initiate armed conflicts.

Sources of Islamic ethics Islamic scripture A key difference between Christian and Islamic perceptions of their respective scriptures is that whereas the Bible is a compilation of works authored by persons who Christians believe were inspired by God, the Quran compiles what Muslims believe to be God’s direct dictations to a single person, the prophet Muhammad. The Quran being the direct revelation of God, the words themselves are regarded as sacred, to the point that the Quran is not merely the speech of God, it is God. This is the Traditionalist view of the Quran, which has prevailed over the

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Rationalist view that the Quran is a reflection of God rather than God himself (Aslan, 2005: 158). As seen with Christianity in Chapter 4, selecting a translation is a significant task in itself. Because the Quran’s contents were revealed and recorded in Arabic, only the original Arabic version is authoritative—and since only the Arabic text is the direct word of God, no translation can ever take its place (Ghunaimi, 1968: 5). What further complicates the Quran’s accessibility to non-Arabic speakers is the “variability of the Arabic language” (Aslan, 2005: 70). For example, the last phrase of Q. 4:34, adribuhunna in Arabic, could be translated as “turn away from them,” “go along with them,” “have intercourse with them,” or “beat them” (id.). Sonbol highlights a similar problem with Q. 3:142, in which Muslims are to “strive” (jihad) for the sake of God in order to go to heaven—the Arabic word could mean internal striving to be a better Muslim, striving to create a strong community of believers, or fighting for whatever is determined to be God’s cause (Sonbol, 2009: 285). “This type of general statement,” writes Sonbol, “opens the door to all sorts of speculation regarding what striving for ‘His cause’ means.” A survey of the Arabic names of the chapters (suras) of the Quran itself, reproduced in Appendix B, gives the reader a further sample of the wide ranges of meanings of Arabic words. This is a key problem in determining whether Islam is militant or peaceful, misogynistic or gender-equitable: the Arabic text is interpreted according to the interpreter’s own ideology. Thus many translators tend to insert their own ideologies and apologetics into the original text’s interpretation (Skreslet and Skreslet, 2006) and translations often have subtle differences leading to different conclusions (Ghunaimi, 1968: 5). Tibi (1996) observes that Muslims tend to quote the Quran selectively to support their own interpretations. A further problem particularly affects the Quran’s interpretation in the madrassahs (Islamic schools) in non-Arabic-speaking Muslim countries such as Pakistan and Afghanistan. There, Quranic instruction focuses on pronunciation and rote memorization of the original Arabic version, which is unfamiliar to the students and archaic even to Arabs. In interpreting the text, students must therefore rely on the expertise and ideological orientation of the instructor—and in the decentralized madrassah system, both vary greatly (Aboul-Enein and Zuhur, 2004: 9). Thus the first major challenge for non-Arabic speakers to identifying the content of the Quranic war ethic is finding a translation that is representative across large segments of the Muslim population worldwide. This is especially difficult for English speakers, for many editions reflect their translators’ sectarian biases and not all are widely accepted within the Islamic community (Skreslet and Skreslet, 2006: 7–19). The classic translation by Pickthall is archaic and difficult to read. The once widely available edition by Dawood has been heavily criticized for imprudently rearranging the text. The Muhammad Ali translation presents a gentle interpretation, but the translator was a leader in a non-mainstream sect of Islam (the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community), which in its native Pakistan is regarded officially as a non-Muslim sect.1 Translations by Asad and Ahmed Ali are Rationalist interpretations and for this reason would also be deemed

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unacceptable in the prevailing Traditionalist mainstream. Those two translations attempt to soften passages endorsing behavior that its translators regard as socially unacceptable today, e.g. beating disobedient wives (Q. 4:34), and furthermore have tampered with certain verses in the text. The translation by the Pakistani barrister Yusuf ‘Ali, while widely accepted by English-speaking Muslims, tends more toward mysticism than is orthodox in mainstream Islam and furthermore is written in verse, raising its difficulty. Several modern scholarly and popular translations, e.g. by Khatib, Malik, and Fakhry, are endorsed as orthodox by alAzhar University, but the English is poor and/or translations too mechanical for intelligibility, or are peppered with untranslated Arabic terms. Two other translations, by contrast, are useful representations of the ideologies prevalent in the Islamic world today. One is the translation by al-Hilali and Khan, which scrupulously separates text from commentary and is printed in Saudi Arabia—thus it may be presumed to be an officially sanctioned Sunni traditional orthodox interpretation (albeit sectarian). Another translation, by Haleem, is faithful to normative Islamic tradition but is also more accessible to non-Muslim readers than most others. Going forward in this chapter, these two translations serve as benchmarks for presenting and interpreting Islamic scripture. However, most scripture in this chapter will be presented through secondary sources, following Sizgorich. Sizgorich (2009) deals with the problem of variability in Arabic by emphasizing works of Quranic exegesis over the text of the Quran itself. His concern is with how the early Muslims conceptualized the theory and practice of jihad, and the best evidence consists of the exegetic works of the first and second centuries A.H. (8th and 9th centuries CE). Similarly, Kelsay’s exploration of “Shari’a reasoning” concentrates heavily on classical juridical and philosophical works (2007: 51–72; see also Kelsay, 2006). As contemporary interpretations of Islamic scripture still rely heavily on early Muslim practice, this approach seems sound. Using the Quran itself, argues Sizgorich (2009: 900, n. 6), would require the reader to perform his/her own exegetical reading, reflecting the reader’s own cultural, historical, and confessional circumstances—precisely the problem we wish to avoid. Islamic historical narrative In Chapter 2, it was noted that sources of religious ethics include not only scripture but also classical literature (usually authored by the priesthood but not always) and historical narrative. The third source is not prominent in Christianity but it is in Islam, especially where war ethics are concerned. The Quran and hadith were compiled, and foundational works of the major legal schools all composed, during a period of great Islamic strength, dominion, and unity—which at its height stretched from the Pyrenees to the Punjab. Ridgeon (2004: 162) shows that despite the strain of pluralism among many Muslims (now and then), it is the universalist ideology that has prevailed. Moreover, writes Ridgeon, “Questioning the Islamic tradition (including the hadiths and maghazi literature [that which focused on the Prophet’s military campaigns]) is problematic for

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many Muslims because it is through such [universalistic] traditions that the historical validity of the Qur’an is vouchsafed” (id.). This difficulty is further reflected in Islamic education today: it is early Muslim history—the heyday of Islamic political dominion—that is heavily emphasized in Islamic education, not later (Cook, 2004: 42–3).

Foundations of the Islamic war ethic Islamic political philosophy Although Sizgorich’s (2009) approach to Quranic exegesis seems logical given the challenges described above, it must be pointed out that if we interpret the Quran today the way Sizgorich advocates, then so did the early Muslims, who as Arabs were already a very warlike people. Islam began essentially as a reformist movement against the oppression resulting from human depravity (Ghunaimi, 1968: 20–1). In Islam, human nature is perceived as narrow-minded and deliberately stupid. God has favored humans with the cognitive and volitional capacities necessary to comprehend the purpose of life, yet humans have failed to act on the “natural” guidance that God gave them. Humans are too preoccupied with the affairs and pleasures of this world to appreciate the next world’s pleasures—and punishments—which are beyond anything humanly imaginable (Sachedina, 2002: 41).2 Islam and Christianity both emphasize individual moral responsibility. But in contrast to Christianity, Islam holds that people can achieve salvation only through their actions, not by virtue of membership in a select group or because of someone else’s supreme sacrifice (Badr, 1999: 99).3 The path to salvation, in Islam, is obedience to God’s law. Fulfilling the law constitutes happiness in this life, however physically arduous it may seem, by giving those who submit to God’s law the inner satisfaction that their next lives are assured in heaven (Khadduri, 1955: 24). Indeed, the word islam in Arabic means “surrender” or “submission” to God’s will (Kelsay, 2007: 9). This is another way in which Islam differs from Christianity, notwithstanding that both religions worship the same universal and omnipotent God: whereas Christianity stresses man’s submission to God’s love, Islam stresses submission to God’s will. Islam seeks to restore humankind to its original condition, in which all people submit to God (Martin, 1991: 96) and in doing so achieve salvation. Islam calls for pragmatic ordering of submission and service to God within a community (umma) founded by the Prophet and modeled on his recollected examples. The Islamic world considers God’s kingdom to be achievable on earth, but only within the umma and only after the umma has overcome all opposition (Martin, 1991: 107). In Islamic tradition, Muhammad conceived of the umma as a brotherhood “bound by common obligations to a superior divine authority,” and membership in it is the sole path to prosperity in this world and salvation in the next. All other loyalties, tribal or otherwise, are superseded by the brotherhood (Khadduri, 1955: 3–4).4 But as society is indispensable for the survival of man

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and the concept of authority is inherent in that of society (the latter cannot survive without the former), the conception of umma presupposes a body of fundamental laws—in this case, divine commands, issued by a supreme Lawgiver. The umma is necessary to suppress the aggressive and evil propensities of man. Thus the Islamic “state” is born—to the extent that the umma is analogous to the modern state (Tibi, 1996: 140–1). The Islamic state has path-dependent origins as well. The historical traditions associated with its formation are important to what Kelsay (2007: 5) calls “Shari’a reasoning,” in ways absent from Christian ethical reasoning. What also spawned the original Islamic state was the practical necessity to establish a “tribe” that was physically as strong as, therefore able to withstand the onslaught of, the surrounding tribes. In pre-Islamic Arabia, the sovereign political entity was the tribe. To be tribeless was to lack legal or moral standing; a tribeless person could be robbed, raped, and killed with impunity. Since new converts to Islam could be expected to be ostracized from their own tribes (as Muhammad was), it was necessary to build a strong community for the sake of mutual protection (Pipes, 1983: 42). The original Islamic state was not only a religious unity but also a political one, ruled by a single government (Donner, 1991: 51) under the divine banner. In contrast to Western theories of social contract between individuals, the Islamic social contract is between each person and God. The Islamic citizen does not seek rights in a contract with an earthly ruler, but rather with a higher authority binding both ruler and subject, in which the earthly ruler discharges the duties imposed on him by God (Weeramantry, 1988: 117). The tendency among later Muslim scholars was to adopt a Hobbesian-like approach to governance, in which a strong state is necessary for security (Khadduri, 1955: 13). The Quran and other traditional sources consistently assert that order must supplant anarchy, even at the cost of imposing tyranny. “Sixty years of tyranny is better than one day’s anarchy,” Muhammad is reported to have said (quoted in Ayoob, 2008: 4). In Islamic political theory, the locus of sovereignty resides in God, who is responsible to no one else therefore his sovereignty is absolute. God promises to delegate his power of earthly sovereignty to those who believe in him and do good works. That delegate is the imam (priest) and the Islamic political ruler is a delegate of the imam. Therefore, subject to the ruler himself upholding the law and fulfilling his divinely ordained duties, the people have a divinely mandated duty to obey the ruler (Ghunaimi, 1968: 92–3).5 In the first Islamic state, both religious and political authority resided in a single person, the prophet Muhammad (Medina Charter, 2018: art. 23). Muhammad’s authority as lawgiver was absolute, as evident in his response to grievances over his declaration that women henceforth would be allowed to own and inherit property: “Those who disobey God and His Messenger … will be thrown in to Hell” (Aslan, 2005: 62, quoting Q. 4:14). The Medina Charter lapsed upon Muhammad’s death; his successor, styled the Caliph, exercised no prophetic function but did retain executive power. This decoupling of religious from political authority grounds the complaint of some

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Islamic law scholars that the West has mischaracterized the Islamic state as a “theocracy.” Ghunaimi (1968: 91) argues that the Western conception of theocracy, as the autocratic concentration of God’s authority through a priestly class or king, is “alien” to Islam (his word). Khadduri (1955: 14–6) objects that although some authority is derived from and exercised by God directly, other authority is derived from the divine code endowed by God but enforced by the earthly ruler.6 However, as Ayoob (2008: 14) points out, in the historical Islamic Caliphate, the domains of religion and state could not be insulated from each other completely. This is partly due to historical precedent for commingling temporal and religious authority (in the Prophet and the first four “righteously guided” caliphs).7 It is also partly due to the moral concerns intruding into the political sphere being couched in religious vocabulary—which is inevitable in any society in which religion flourishes. Political and religious identities overlapped significantly during the Caliphate, with Muslim rulers attempting to use religious titles and institutions as political instruments to legitimize their claim to rule. The question whether the ideal Islamic state is theocratic or not obscures a larger, more fundamental question: To what extent, if any, do Islamic norms of political behavior evolve? The outcome of the conflict between Islamic Rationalism and Islamic Traditionalism in the 9th and 10th centuries CE may shed some light on both questions. Rationalists argued that God, while fundamentally indefinable, exists nevertheless within the framework of human reason. Ibn Rushd (Averro¨es), for example, asserted that God’s existence could be established by human reasoning, apart from divine revelation (Weeramantry, 1988: 95). In Islamic Rationalism, all theological arguments must adhere to principles of rational thought and be subordinate to human reason, even interpretations of the Quran and the traditions of the Prophet (the Sunna). Islamic Traditionalists argued the reverse—that human reason, while important, must be subordinated to the Quran and the Sunna, otherwise people follow their own wills instead of God’s. Human reason is imperfect, faulty, and unstable, whereas the Quran is fixed (by God, who is perfect beyond question) and the prophetic traditions fixed also (by God’s representative, the Prophet; Aslan, 2005: 153–4). Thus the Traditionalist thinker Ghazali countered that human intellectual rigor must remain within the boundaries of the core premises of Islam (Weeramantry, 1988: 100)—an early Islamic iteration of bounded rationality. The Rationalist school of thought was not accepted in mainstream Islam, and by the end of the 13th century CE, the Traditionalist school had prevailed in Sunni Islam (Aslan, 2005: 158), and Islamic Rationalism has yet to recover even today (Aslan, 2005: 158, 166–9). This outcome gave the orthodox ulama (priesthood) the sole authority to interpret the fixed and immutable text of the Quran. The Quran could not be a product solely of and for Muhammad’s society. Instead, it was viewed as eternal; therefore, historical context could play no further role in its interpretation (Aslan, 2005: 162). This outlook freezes into place those standards that its contemporaneous interpreters claimed—at that moment in time—were mandated by God. Those standards developed into behavioral norms for all time, even in cases when contemporaneous interpreters themselves were

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reacting to a specific historical circumstance, even when the interpreters’ own (human) logic was flawed. This is what has happened to Islamic ethics. Contemporary scholarship on Islam is plagued with the “baffling contradictions,” as Sonbol (2009: 283) puts it, “between what Islam is purported to say and how various political groups act.”8 Sonbol would explain the contradiction by deconstructing the discursive history of Islamic ethics, but the triumph of Traditionalism over Rationalism would appear to negate the utility of any such deconstruction. As a result, Islamic political theory and Islamic law have remained stagnant and the Islamic worldview and ethos do not comport with the sociopolitical realities in which Muslims find themselves today (Martin, 1991: 109). Rather, the Islamic mainstream seeks to force today’s reality to fit the confines of Islamic law as it existed in another time and place (Pipes, 1983: 11). Islamic law The core discipline of Islam is not theology or metaphysics, but law (Weeramantry, 1988: 9). In Islam, law is premised on God’s unparalleled superiority and authority. Law emanates from the word of God, passed through his Prophet Muhammad, and compiled into the Quran. The Quran, in its original 7th-century CE Arabic version, is immutable, comprehensive, and “supremely authoritative” (Weeramantry, 1988: 8). Indeed, the Traditionalist view is that by virtue of being the direct revelation of God, the Quran is God (Aslan, 2005: 158). The Quran is the most authoritative source of Islamic law, but not the only source. Another is the body of hadith, the collection of oral traditions of other statements and actions attributed to the Prophet (collectively referred to as the sunna). Other traditional sources include qiyas, the use of analogy in legal reasoning; and ijtihad, independent human reasoning (but which is no longer a valid source of Islamic law today). After the Prophet’s death, several different scholarly approaches to Islamic law emerged, and these approaches settled into various schools, four of which have survived in Sunni Islam and one major school in Shia Islam (the following summaries from Weeramantry, 1998: chap. 4; Aslan, 2005: 141–84; Khadduri, 1955: 36–7). The largest and strongest, the Hanafi School, founded by Abu Hanifah, is notable for the use of ijtihad during its formative stage, extensive use of analogy (qiyas), and its dynamism (allowing the law to change with the times and facts). Most prominent in South and Central Asia, it is considered the most liberal legal school remaining within the bounds of the Traditionalist paradigm. The Maliki School, founded by Malik Ibn Anas and prominent in West Africa, stresses practical teachings and relies almost exclusively on hadith from the Medina period (when Muhammad lived in exile in Medina). The predominant legal schools in the epicenter of Islam are more conservative. The Shafi’i School, founded by Muhammad al Shafi’i and strong in Egypt, southern Arabia, and Southeast Asia, concentrates on logical reasoning from the Quran and sunna. However, that reasoning is strictly bounded; teleological reasoning (reasoning by

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reference to the ends of law) is anathema because law’s purpose is a matter for God alone. Law is not derived (that would substitute man’s judgment for God’s), but instead must be discovered, based on what God has already revealed. The Hanbali School, founded by Ahmed Ibn Hanbal and prominent in Afghanistan and Saudi Arabia (where it is official), is the strictest, most conservative of the four Sunni schools. In this school, the only valid roots of law are the Quran and sunna. The Hanbali School is the most hostile to legal reasoning, for the Quran is divine law and as such exists independently of human reason. A hadith, however weak, is preferable to any other source save the Quran itself. The main legal school in Shia Islam is the Jafari School, founded by Ja’far as-Sadiq; it recognizes a different body of hadith than Sunni Islam and vigorously employs ijtihad (Aslan, 2005: 184; Ghunaimi, 1968: 1). The triumph of Islamic Traditionalism over Rationalism has had far-reaching consequences for the development of Islamic law. By the 9th century CE, claims of hadith had proliferated to the point that their authenticity was doubtful, so scholars began to seek out and compile those hadith which in their judgment were most authentic. In theory, only those with reliable chains of transmission were retained; they had to be traceable all the way back to the Prophet, with each link in the chain being a morally upright Muslim. However, Aslan (2005: 164–9) shows that major compilers of hadith such Bukhari and Hajjaj actually did not put that ideal into practice. Most hadith were selected for retention not because their chains of transmission were particularly strong, but because their contents reflected the beliefs of the majority and the practices of the community. Hadith were selectively incorporated into the sunna in such a way as to legitimize those beliefs and practices that were already widely accepted by the majority of the ulama. This was done to create a sense of Islamic orthodoxy and orthopraxy. Any hadith not reflecting majority opinion were eliminated. Furthermore, the ulama de-legitimized any further use of ijtihad, closing off any further possibility of legal reasoning independent of the Quran and Sunna—even if the Quran and Sunna were silent on the matter at hand. Thus the major compilers of hadith were hardly objective, either politically or religiously. The Sunna reflects the ideology of the 9th-century CE priesthood far better than that of the original, 7th-century CE community of Muhammad’s followers. As the major legal schools outlined above gradually coalesced into legal institutions, the diversity of ideas and freedom of opinion characterizing their early development eventually succumbed to rigid formalism and a strict form of stare decisis (adherence to legal precedent). By the 12th century CE, the ulama could label anyone not ascribing to this rigid form of Traditionalism an “unbeliever,” thus chilling even further any challenges to the status quo. As a result, many Islamic principles, prescriptions, assumptions, and outlooks are based on historical circumstances radically different from those in which the Islamic world finds itself today. Islamic law is frozen at a time when Islamdom was very strong and successful, its technology equivalent or superior to that of its rivals, its higher learning flourishing, its military campaigns largely successful, and Islam itself being propagated rapidly (Martin, 1991: 109). These characteristics

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naturally induced a historical perception of self-superiority, and that perception has strongly influenced the Islamic perception of Otherness. In Islam, the Other consists of the forces of deception, unbelief, and shirk (the association of other beings with God), as opposed to the forces of the straight path and submission to God. In Islam, there is no more repugnant epithet than to be labeled a mushrikun (one who commits shirk). Even the other Abrahamic, monotheistic religions (Judaism and Christianity) were viewed as communities that had rejected their prophets and distorted their scriptures (Martin, 1991: 97–8). Dar al-harb and dar al-islam This strong separation of Other from Self led to the early juridical division of the world between the dar al-harb (abode of war/conflict) and dar al-islam (the abode of submission, or of Islam; Q. 10:25).9 Because the abode of war does not follow God’s revealed word and Muhammad’s teachings, it can never be rightly ordered toward God; even its best efforts are frustrated by human frailties and misguided endeavors. As Naipaul (1981: 368) puts it, “everything outside was impious, impure, infidel.” Within the dar al-harb, justice is always injustice and the natural state is one of conflict. All of these faults are righted in the dar al-islam (Johnson, 1997: 49).10 Pipes (1983: 39–40) suggests an additional contributing factor to this division: the strong delineation of Self from Other may be a natural consequence of the strong social bond created by any heavily legalistic religion such as Islam. Such a worldview is a recipe for Islamic hostility toward non-Islam, whether generated by antipathy toward non-believers or by the belief (rational or not) that the dar al-harb is hostile to Islam. As Hodgson puts it, Muhammad’s prophethood, in fulfilling the monotheistic tendency toward a total religious community, at the same time left his community confronted with that temptation to a spirit of exclusivity that went with any vision of the total community and received appropriate expression in warfare. (quoted in Martin, 1991: 107, n. 43) This is what Martin (1991: 108) characterizes as Islam’s moral dilemma: whether or not the dar al-islam must/should be expanded by force. On one hand, doing so would be a charitable act, by assuring salvation to more people (the Augustinian ethic of fraternal correction is not dissimilar)—and peoples naturally prefer governance by and under their own religionists. On the other hand, given the distribution of power in the state system today, how can the umma fulfill such a divinely-ordained role—global domination—without bringing the rest of the world’s wrath down upon it? This tension is evident in the Islamic law of nations. In Islam, international law is simply an extension of the natural law discovered first by jurist-theologians, as was international law in Europe (Ghunaimi, 1968: 30). But in Islam, international law originally was intended as a temporary institution only, for Islam’s goal was to unify the world under its banner (Khadduri, 1955: 44–5). The focus of Islamic

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international law thus is not intra-Muslim relations (recall that the original umma was a single Muslim state), but relations between Islamdom and the outside. A few basic principles of Islamic international law are familiar to Westerners, e.g. pacta sunt servanda (Q. 2:177, 5:1, 9:4, 16:91-2), reciprocity (Q. 2:194, 9:7, 16: 126), and legal personality of non-Muslim entities (Q. 8:72; Badr, 1999: 98). However, early Muslim jurists denounced perpetual treaties with non-Muslims (thus perpetual peace), citing the Quranic proscription to “take not the Jews and the Christians for friends” (Q. 5:51; Ghunaimi, 1968: 160–1).11 Furthermore, the Islamic state may repudiate any treaty with non-Muslims should its interests dictate it, i.e. when the Islamic state becomes strong enough to defeat the nonMuslims in battle, thus rendering the treaty unenforceable. The passage in Q. 9:5 in which God instructs the Muslims to kill the unbelievers takes place in the context of repudiating treaties with non-believers (Q. 9:1-4). Some modern scholars thus have held that treaties with non-Muslims are not fully binding on Muslims: Ayatollah Khomeini declared his opposition to treaties contradicting Islamic law (Mayer, 1991: 201),12 and the former rector of al-Azhar University, Sheikh Shaltut, asserted that Muslims are free to denounce treaties doing more harm to Muslims than good (id.). By that logic, any pacta with non-Muslims only sunt servanda by non-Muslims, thereby holding Muslims to a different standard of compliance with international law. Franck (1995: 16–8) labels this problem the “trumping” principle and shows how it undermines the reciprocity and fair dealing that orders international interactions. This problem forms the basis of Mayer’s (1991: 199) assertion that the Islamic world has difficulty accepting modern public international law, which is not a Muslim creation but a Western one—and rooted ultimately in Christianity. Accepting such authority offends the basic Islamic premise of Islamic law’s supremacy. Dar al-suhl Several scholars counter-argue that the so-called perpetual state of war between the dar al-islam and dar al-harb is a myth, long dispelled by centuries of diplomatic relations between the Islamic and non-Islamic states in Europe, Central Asia, and India (Weeramantry, 1988: 143; Ghunaimi, 1968: 45–6). These arguments neglect the third type of abode constructed by early Muslim jurisconsults: the dar al-suhl (abode of treaty or conciliation; see also Peters, 1995; Badr, 1999: 96). Islamic law deems it permissible to temporarily suspend conflict with nonIslam if doing so serves the interests of Islam. The struggle for Islamic dominance may be revived whenever deemed necessary (Khadduri, 1955: 65). The nature of Islam’s entry into the Westphalian state system13 is better rooted in the tradition of the dar al-suhl, in which Islamdom acknowledges the reality of its material weakness relative to non-Islam, than in claims that alliances with non-Muslims violate Islamic law (Ghunaimi, 1968: 50–2). Ghunaimi (1968: 53) characterizes that event as the beginning of the decline of Islamic international law, but I submit that it is better characterized as a temporary abatement of hostilities which for the moment do not further Muslim interests due to Muslim weakness—as poignantly

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illustrated in 19th-century Morocco’s decision to normalize peaceful relations with Europe (Tibi, 1996: 130, 134–5). The Moroccan Sultan’s advisor had been reluctant to repudiate the duty to wage war against unbelievers yet could not overlook the Christians’ superior power. Therefore, it was in Morocco’s temporary interest to accept peaceful relations with non-Islamdom and submit to international standards of law and conduct. Tibi labels this policy “conformism.” But the dar al-suhl has its limits; it may allow Islamdom to capitulate momentarily to the reality of Western domination, but that does not entail being integrated fully into the Western system. Sheikh Shaltut, contemptuous to Westphalian international law, concedes that peaceful coexistence with nonIslamdom should be sanctioned, but only by treatises that do not infringe Islamic law (Tibi, 1996: 136). The many reservations to core provisions of the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW)14 well illustrates this sentiment. Many Muslim states ratified the Convention but made reservations to the effect that nothing in the Convention would override Islamic law; this practice prompted several Western states to lodge objections to those reservations, claiming that they were fundamentally incompatible with CEDAW’s object and purpose and therefore the reserving states were not genuinely parties to it.15 It is not expected that Muslim states would have ratified CEDAW at all had Muslim states dominated the state system; furthermore, Western concepts of human rights can be expected to permeate the state system only during Western hegemony. This illustration’s broader implication is that when political conditions no longer require the dar al-islam to accommodate the dar al-harb, Islamic thought prescribes that such accommodation and conciliation should cease.

The Islamic war ethic Islamic conception of self-defense With the foundation of Islamic political theory and law established, an analysis of the Islamic war ethic can proceed. That ethic is traceable through several epochs (Firestone, 1996: 109). In its very earliest period, when Muhammad and his followers were weak, God’s revelations required the Muslims to persuade unbelievers but not fight them (Q. 15:94-5, 16:125). But after the Muslims fled to Medina and the movement strengthened, later revelations sanctioned fighting in defense (Q. 22:39-40, 2:190). That Islamic jus ad bellum permits force in self-defense is clear and not surprising. The fundamental Islamic basis of the right of self-defense is rooted historically in the oppression of the earliest Muslims in Mecca by the Quraysh tribe, forcing them to flee to Medina. As the movement strengthened, its Meccan adversaries stepped up their efforts to destroy it (Firestone, 1996: 112). Just as the Christian Roman Empire needed a justification for violence to defend itself against invaders, so did Muhammad and his followers to defend against an enemy that was increasingly resolved to destroy them. The primary scriptural

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basis for an Islamic right of self-defense is Q. 22:39-40, which permits fighting by those who have been oppressed and even imposes a duty of self-defense (Aslan, 2005: 84; Sonbol, 2009: 289). Several gentler translations of the Sword Verses, Q. 2:190-3, 9:5, and 9:29, may be interpreted in this light. Even the Ahmadiyya sect, which explicitly renounces offensive use of force, permits it to protect Muslims and their property (Sivan, 1998: 175).16 In contemporary statecraft, Islam generally condones violence in response to state repression or foreign occupation (Ayoob, 2008: 1). In addition, Islam imposes a duty to defend and protect the weak, i.e. fight for those who cannot defend themselves (Sonbol, 2009: 289).17 Many contemporary observers of Islam take the position that jihad (striving for God) is defensive only or could even consist of passive activities such as nonrecognition (Mayer, 1991: 203–4).18 Aslan (2005: 84) argues that Quranic passages on slaying polytheists, fighting infidels, etc. (9:5, 9:73, 9:29) concern the specific treatment of the Quraysh tribe of Mecca and their allies. Sachedina (2002: 42) asserts that the Quran’s actual meaning mandates stamping out “actively hostile” unbelief, such as the malicious unbelief of the Muslims’ earliest persecutors. Both Aslan and Weeramantry (1988: 114) thus claim that the Quran warns Muslims against committing acts of persecution and aggression themselves, directing them only to fight back against attacks from others, e.g. Q. 2:190 (do not “transgress” the limits of fighting) and Q. 16:90 (God enjoins justice; do not kill without right). However, as Donner (1991: 47) points out, whether the Quran does or does not explicitly justify offensive violence against unbelievers “is really left to the judgment of the exegete” and not all translations of the Quran lend themselves to such restrictive interpretations. Whereas Pickthall, Dawood, and Muhammad Ali translate Q. 2:190 as prohibiting aggression, the more contemporary translations of Haleem, Hilali and Khan, and Yusuf Ali interpret the same verse as prohibiting transgression (of limits). The former is more restrained; it prescribes force for defensive purposes only, i.e. Muslims must not give others cause to defend themselves against Muslims. The latter constrains force only within the confines of jus ad bellum and jus in bello that Islam itself prescribes. If, as other Quranic passages suggest, Muslims have broad discretion to attack non-Muslims by virtue of their religion or are even required to do so, then Islamic jus ad bellum is considerably more permissive than its apologists contend, for there are fewer limits to transgress against. Furthermore, the passage also may be interpreted to pertain only to jus in bello (methods and means of warfare once undertaken). As such, it would contain no constraints on the decision to attack in the first place. Quran 2:191 establishes what wrongdoing by the enemy justifies the lesser wrongdoing of killing them. Its translations vary widely. The plurality of translations uses the word “persecution,” but others use “tumult and oppression,” idolatry, or polytheism and apostasy. In the plurality’s interpretation, persecution or oppression of Muslims justifies war against non-Muslims for their material injuries on Muslims, but the acts of idolatry, polytheism, or apostasy do not. In

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the other interpretations, causes for defense are much broader. In addition, the phrase translated by Haleem as “drive them out from where they drove you out” (the translations do not vary widely here) is quite vague. Does it mean “drive them out only from where they drove you out,” or is there greater latitude to expel non-Muslims for the sake of security or religious purity of the umma?19 Quran 2:193 articulates the goal to be achieved by fighting. Its translations vary widely also. In the Haleem, Pickthall, and Muhammad Ali translations, the goal is to stop “persecution”—suggesting a strictly defensive purpose, i.e. relieve Muslims from material oppression by non-Muslims. But in other translations, war’s objective is considerably more transcendental. In Dawood, the goal is to eradicate “idolatry”; in Hilali and Khan, to eradicate “disbelief and worshipping of others along with Allˆah”; and in Yusuf Ali, to eradicate “tumult or oppression”—covering considerable ground depending on what is cause for “tumult.” The other goal in Q. 2:193, in Haleem’s words, is to fight until “worship is devoted to God” (as opposed to entities other than God; cf. Pickthall’s translation “religion is for Allah”).20 Haleem’s translation suggests that the goal of fighting is to propagate monotheism, i.e. eradicate polytheism; his commentary claims that the verse speaks specifically to worship at the “sacred mosque” (Q. 2: 193, trans. Haleem, note c, referring to the Kaaba in Mecca). Muhammad Ali asserts a considerably softer interpretation of his translation “until … religion is only for Allāh”; he claims it means “When persecution ceases, and men are not forced to accept or renounce a religion, being at liberty to profess any religion of the truth of which they are convinced” (Q. 2:193, trans. Muhammad Ali, note 193a). He asserts, incorrectly in my view, that this interpretation must be correct in light of other verses. Quran 22:40 permits fighting to resist injustice21 and in Muhammad Ali’s logic, any other interpretation of 2:193 would render 22:40 meaningless. However, the context of both verses is resistance by Muslims against oppression, religious or otherwise, committed by non-Muslims. What Muhammad Ali really means is that Muslims be at liberty to choose their religions. Arguing that Muslims should protect religious freedom for non-Muslims, especially polytheists, is not persuasive in light of the Quran’s overall hostility toward them. Other translations of Q. 2:193 are more overtly militant. Yusuf Ali’s translation asserts that “there prevail justice and faith in Allah” (emphasis added),22 again suggesting promoting monotheism and eradicating polytheism. Hilali and Khan’s translation goes further, asserting that “(all and every kind of) worship is for Allˆah (alone)”—a prescription that Muslims fight until all polytheism is eradicated, everywhere. Dawood’s translation “until…Allah’s religion reigns supreme” articulates the goal of making Islam specifically the only religion, or at least the predominant one. The variations outlined above cast considerable doubt on the argument, advanced most prominently by Morkevicius (2018: 158), that the Islamic war ethic permits offensive force to preserve world order—an otherwise charitable motive in other contexts. Morkevicius overlooks the fact that the kind of world

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order promoted by the Islamic war ethic consists of Islamic supremacy or even universality. That is not a just war ethic, but a holy war ethic. In contrast, the war ethic of Christianity—which also has an evangelizing agenda—does not (or rather, no longer) privilege Christianity in the same manner. The variations outlined above generate ambiguities as to what acts are to be “defended” against. Sachedina (2002: 39–42) suggests two types of acts: aggression and “moral wrong” (Q. 8:39, 2:193). If “moral wrong” includes failure to worship and obey the one true God—the position of many scriptural verses and Islamic priestly writings—then the concept of self-defense is broadened beyond the standard of self-defense that characterizes today’s jus ad bellum and just war theory. In such case, Islam would sanction the use of offensive force to (1) eradicate polytheism, despite a lack of material injury toward Muslims and (2) eliminate obstacles to Islam’s propagation (Mayer, 1991: 205). Sheikh Shaltut writes that fighting is justified to repel aggression, but also to “protect the Islamic mission” (Mayer, 1991: 204; see also Aboul-Enein and Zuhur, 2004: 11). As Sachedina (2002: 39) puts it, the Quran “also requires Muslims to work toward establishing a just public order. At this point the jihad becomes an offensive endeavor in connection with efforts to bring about the kind of world order the Qur’an envisions” (emphasis added). Such goals stray beyond the conventional definition of self-defense against an attack. In addition, the Islamic conception of “aggression” treats actions not constituting use of force against Islam as hostile nevertheless. This interpretation is evident in two works by international lawyers, one written before the adoption of the UN Definition of Aggression and one written afterward. Ghunaimi’s 1968 treatment speaks of “ideological aggression”: Islam envisaged aggression only when its ideology is endangered because of state activity. In this case, the Islamic state is to defend the Faith and repel aggression, even by force if necessary…. [T]he element of violence or the use of armed force is not necessarily required to qualify an act as aggression. Indirect aggression and particularly when an act causes incitement against a certain ideology, may constitute a cause good enough for justifying an act of self-defence. (1968: 209) Weeramantry, writing in 1988, holds out the possibility that Islamic law permits force in self-defense against “aggression” that does not involve the direct use of force, such as economic or propaganda “wars” (1988: 162). Such claims severely undermine the position that the Islamic war ethic is strictly defensive. Jihad and the permissive Islamic war ethic Once the Muslims in Medina had acquired power, revelations to Muhammad concerning the war ethic were significantly more permissive (Firestone, 1996: 109). After the revelations of Q. 2:217 and 2:191, the Muslims were free to raid the Meccans and their caravans. The revelations of Q. 9:5 and 9:29, among other

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verses, enjoined them to attack their opponents anytime, anywhere. Even after Muhammad’s final triumph over Mecca, ending the threat to his movement once and for all, no further revelations ensued; thus, the more permissive verses giving Muslims much broader discretion to use force than before were never moderated (Firestone, 1996: 113). The core of Islamic jus ad bellum in scripture is the doctrine of jihad. Derived from the Arabic root jahada (exert), the word is usually translated into English as a struggle, striving, or great effort. Strictly speaking, that translation does not necessarily denote an armed struggle, but such has been the historical connotation of the word in the West; indeed, the word “jihad” as an English language loanword is synonymous with “holy war.” It is the word most associated with the tenet that “[a]ny war against unbelievers, whatever its immediate ground, is morally justified” (Tibi, 1996: 131). The verse most associated with the permissive Islamic war ethic is Q. 9:5, which is said to have abrogated as many as 124 other Quranic verses (Firestone, 1996: 111). A more conservative translation reads: Then when the Sacred Months have passed, then kill the Mushrikˆun [translated elsewhere as “idolators, polytheists, disbelievers in the Oneness of Allˆah, pagans, etc.”] wherever you find them, and capture them and besiege them, and lie in wait for them in each and every ambush. But if they repent and perform As-Salˆat (Iqˆamat-as-Salˆat), and give Zakˆat, then leave their way free. Verily, Allˆah is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful. (Q. 9:5, trans. Hilali and Khan) The same translation also cites several hadith in support of the early Muslim wars against the non-Muslims. In fairness to Islam, the verse’s context, when properly read, severely undermines its validity as a basis for jihad against unbelievers, despite the plain meaning of the words. The context is that the polytheists, pagans, idolaters, and unbelievers, having previously made treaties with the Muslims, all have violated their agreements by attacking Muslims or supporting others who did. The ninth chapter of the Quran therefore opens with a general release from all of the Muslims’ treaty obligations toward the non-Muslims—on the grounds that the non-Muslims first breached theirs (Q. 9.1, trans. Muhammad Ali, note a; Q., trans. Haleem, introduction to sura 9).23 In Islam, the juridical-theological meaning of jihad is to exert power in God’s path, i.e. spread belief in God and make his word supreme throughout the world (Khadduri, 1955: 55). This interpretation suggests a twofold duty: propagate Islam as a religion and expand the authority of Islamic law. Pipes (1983: 44) argues that jihad’s primary purpose is the latter: “to approach God properly, man must live by the Shari’a; because the Shari’a contains provisions which can only be executed by a government, the state has to be in the hands of Muslims; Muslims must therefore control territory.” Islamic jurists regard jihad as the vehicle for establishing Islamic sovereignty, since the reign of God’s religion requires its political supremacy on earth (Ghunaimi, 1968: 137).

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Propagation and supremacy of Islam The main tension is whether the duty of jihad mandates use of force to bring about Islamic supremacy. Some assert that jihad has a dual meaning. In one meaning—its primary religious connotation—jihad means “the struggle of the soul to overcome the sinful obstacles that keep a person from God” (Aslan, 2005: 81). This is the “greater jihad,” and it is inward-looking, passive. Outside of Islamdom, however, jihad is usually associated with its other meaning: the “lesser jihad,” an exertion or “struggle” of force (defensive or offensive). Khadduri interprets jihad as follows: In Muslim legal theory, … it is the duty of the imam as well as every believer not only to see that God’s world shall be supreme, but also that no infidel shall deny God or be ungrateful for His favor (ni‘am)…. The jihad, in other words, is a sanction against polytheism and must be suffered by all nonMuslims who reject Islam.… The jihad, therefore, may be defined as the litigation between Islam and polytheism; it is also a form of punishment to be inflicted upon Islam’s enemies and the renegades from the faith. (1955: 59, italics omitted) This interpretation imposes an obligation to destroy polytheism, even if no polytheistic actor has attacked Muslims. I submit that this is a quite plausible interpretation of the Sword Verses. All translations of Q. 2:193 state that if the enemy ceases attack, then Muslims must also. But the Quran makes an exception for certain enemies, whom the Muslims may continue to fight even if they give Muslims no further cause to fight. In the translations of Haleem, Muhammad Ali, and Yusuf Ali, respectively, those enemies consist of “aggressors,” “oppressors,” or “those who practice oppression,” meaning persons who continue their repressive ways internally (or perhaps against other actors) despite having desisted from their attacks against Muslims. They have given cause for “humanitarian intervention,” in the contemporary international legal sense of the word. But in the Pickthall and Dawood translations, the actors against whom Muslims may continue to fight are “wrongdoers” or “evil-doers,” respectively. These translations raise questions of what activities are considered “wrong” or “evil” in Islam that confer cause to stop them by force. That question seems to be left open to the interpreter. In the Hilali and Khan translation, those actors are the zˆalimˆun, translated as “polytheists and wrongdoers.” My point is that it is by no means certain that polytheists and pagans are not the object of perpetual hostility in the Islamic war ethic, nor is it certain that even non-Muslim monotheists are not also “wrong-doers.” Of the two conceptions of jihad, greater and lesser, I submit that the lesser jihad is the more accurate interpretation of the Islamic war ethic. The greater jihad is not a Quranic mandate but a juridical construction. The construction of the two jihads did not emerge until the 13th century CE—and when it did, it encountered formidable opposition (Sonbol, 2009: 297).24 Until then, militarism had been far

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more central in actual Islamic practice, and as mentioned earlier in this chapter, it is early Muslim history that is heavily emphasized in Islamic education, not later. There is no basis for distinguishing greater and lesser jihad in early Muslim history. The greater jihad is given greater treatment today than is warranted in the classical Islamic texts, upon which most Islamic scholarly treatments of the Islamic war ethic are based (see Cook, 2005: 39–48). Many scholars sympathetic to Islam maintain that even if jihad’s original meaning were in the “lesser” sense instead of the greater, holy war still was not part of that original meaning. Kelsay (2007: 38) summarizes claims that the intention of Muslim expansion was “beneficent paternalism,” not to aggrandize but to “open” the conquered territory to what the Muslims believed was the natural state of humankind. Aslan (2005: 84), Sachedina (2002: 42–3), and Ghunaimi (1968: 166–7) all assert that the Sword Verses actually were intended to legitimize defensive force against the early Muslims’ original persecutors, i.e. actively hostile unbelievers (see also Sonbol, 2009: 296). Weeramantry (1988: 146) claims that jihad did not always necessarily entail actual hostilities; the struggle could be executed by persuasion (Q. 16:125) or passive resistance such as non-recognition. These claims are not persuasive. Even if the scriptures’ original meanings were as just claimed (itself a dubious proposition), the earliest Muslims’ method was to impose their authority (Kelsay, 2007: 45–6). The procedure, informed by the Quran and hadith, required that Muslims first invite their opponents to convert to Islam or, in the case of Scriptuaries (People of the Book, i.e. Jews, Christians, and Sabeans), allow them to peacefully accept Muslim dominion if they agree to pay the jizya (poll tax). If the opponent accepts the invitation or terms and ceases to make war against the Muslims, the cause for jihad is negated. If they do not, the jihad may commence (Khadduri, 1955: 96, citing Q. 17:18 and hadith). In such a circumstance, the harbis (the people of the dar al-harb) have no rights; Muslims may treat them as they wish (killing, enslaving, etc.), subject only to specific Quranic proscriptions from killing women and children (Johnson, 1997: 70–1, citing Shaybani’s Siyar). For the Scriptuaries, satisfying the conditions necessary to negate the jihad means surrendering their autonomy and right of self-determination—itself a casus belli in most if not all cultures. For idolators, even accepting Islam would not prevent them from being forced out of their homes anyway (Kelsay, 2007: 101, quoting Shaybani’s Siyar). Under Muhammad’s leadership, the original jihad was undertaken to unify the Arabs. Perhaps the early Muslims believed that they were acting in the best interests of the Arab people, who were prone to tribal warfare. As Weeramantry (1988: 145) puts it, jihad was to vehicle to spread the “Pax Islamica” to the dar al-harb (the abode of war). But even if the early Muslims are excused for arrogating to themselves the privilege of unifying the Arabs by force, the writers above assert that the Sword Verses were never intended to legitimize forcible conversion to Islam, let alone mandate it. Nor, they claim, did they legitimize the rapid territorial conquest and dominion of the Muslim Arabs outside Arabia. Ghunaimi (1968: 165–78) complains that the militant view of jihad is based on

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verses of the Quran taken out of context, specifically those situations and events during and for which verses were revealed to Muhammad. One such claim (out of many) pertains to Q. 2:191, which Hilali and Khan translate as “kill them [unbelievers] wherever you find them.” The context set by the surrounding verses (Q. 2:190-3) is defense against acts of aggression committed by unbelievers, and 2:192 requires the defenders to stand down when the aggression ceases. Sachedina (2002: 36) asserts that many early Islamic jurists chose to overlook Quranic passages on the moral justification of war (which are more restrained) in favor of other, more permissive passages legitimizing territorial expansion and better capturing Islam’s “proselytizing spirit,” as Weeramantry (1988: 145) puts it. Ghunaimi (1968: 173–4) and Sonbol (2009: 296) both also decry the misapplication of hadith in favor of the militant view of jihad, including several hadith that contradict the Quran. Even the classical treatise of Shaybani (1966), which reduces non-Muslim belligerents to non-persons, does so only in the context of a prior attack by the dar al-harb against the dar al-islam. In Shaybani’s view, war in furtherance of jihad was still permitted only in self-defense—a restrictive interpretation of the Islamic war ethic. Yet in the first few hundred years of Islamdom—which is heavily emphasized in Islamic education today (Cook, 2005: 43)—the more permissive interpretation of the Islamic war ethic prevailed. The Prophet participated personally in 27 Muslim campaigns and directed another 59, all during the last nine years of his life (a total of about nine military engagements per year). Many of God’s revelations to Muhammad (which today constitute the Quran) coincided with military activity, and the victories and defeats associated with Islam’s origins all contributed to how the umma defined itself (Cook, 2005: 6–7). In addition, the early Muslims inherited a fatalistic determinism from their pre-Islamic Arab culture, with the resulting belief that all events were determined absolutely by God (Trombley, 2003: 155).25 Thus it was natural for the early Muslims to attribute their improbable military successes to divine ordination, and this belief emboldened them further.26 Defeats and partial victories were viewed as divine tests of the Muslims’ faith and resolve. This belief in their divinely ordained superiority induced the early Muslims to forcibly unite the Arab tribes (622–632 CE), to enforce Muslim unity when several tribes attempted to withdraw from it after the death of Muhammad (the Riddah Wars, 632–633 CE, which the Muslims viewed as a war to punish apostasy), and to expand the domain of Islam beyond the Arabic-speaking people. The real expansion of the dar al-islam begun under Caliph Umar, beginning in 634 CE. Umar was a fiery, rigid doctrinaire, known for longing for death in battle, believing that martyrdom was the surest path to reward in heaven (Aboul-Enein and Zuhur, 2004: 14, citing the Muwatta of Malik). That Islam should be the only religion tolerated in Arabia was Umar’s “starting point”; under his reign, the Muslims overran the previously Christian domains of Syria, Egypt, and Armenia (of which only Armenia was able to retain its Christian identity), and over 10 years succeeded in conquering Persia and stamping out polytheism there. Within two generations, the Muslim caliphate under the Umayyad dynasty conquered the

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Magreb and Spain. The Muslim army commander Uqba bin Nafi is quoted as crying out, after completing the conquest of North Africa, “O God: if the sea had not prevented, I would have coursed forever…, upholding your faith and fighting all who disbelieved” (quoted in Haddad and Khashan, 2002: 817; emphasis added). The above history is relevant because much of it takes place even before the Quran was compiled and standardized (653–654 CE), and all of it before the emergence of the legal schools outlined earlier in this chapter. The Muwatta of Malik (1980; the founding work of the Maliki school) and Kitab al-kharaj of Abu Yusaf (1979; a prominent work of the Hanafi school) both treat jihad in connection with the task of converting the dar al-harb (Syria, Egypt, Persia, and beyond) into the dar al-islam. Prominent compilations of hadith such as the Sahih al-Bukhari (Bukhari, 1976) portray jihad as a struggle to be waged against unbelievers until they accept Islam, not the inward struggle depicted by proponents of the greater jihad (see Sonbol, 2009: 296). The works of Muhammad al-Shafi’i (founder of the Shafi’i school) cast jihad as a struggle against unbelievers simply on the basis of their unbelief; the doctrine of jihad to eradicate unbelief originated with Shafi’i.27 Indeed, the later in time, the more conservative and militaristic the Islamic legal schools and their treatises: the founder of the most liberal school, Abu Hanifa (died 767 CE), was succeeded by Malik (d. 795), then Shafi’i (d. 820), then Hanbal (d. 855). Within two hundred years after Muhammad’s death, jihad had become synonymous with war in the legal and hadith literature (Sonbol, 2009: 294; Donner, 1991: 51; Khadduri, 1955: 59). But rather than expanding on the original logic and the historical and literary context of Quranic revelations, this body of literature instead rationalized the military expansions recounted above. As Sachedina (2002: 37) puts it, the literature constitutes an “ex post facto legitimation of the early conquests.” By the 10th century CE, the militant doctrine of jihad was so strong that it could withstand challenges even from the most prominent classical Islamic thinkers. The defeat of Averro¨es’s Rationalism has already been mentioned; the treatment of Islamic jus ad bellum by Abu Nasr al-Farabi (Latinized Alpharabius) is also noteworthy (Butterworth, 1990). Writing a century after Shaybani and a half century after Shafi’i, Farabi outlined seven just and four unjust purposes of war. Among the just purposes were defense, reforming others, subjecting those who were suited for subjection, and punishing a crime. Among the unjust purposes were self-aggrandizement, conquest for conquest’s sake, and pure rage or pleasure. Butterworth (1990) argues that “reforming others” as a cause for war lends itself to a militant version of jihad against unbelievers by virtue of their unbelief,28 but Farabi does not explicitly mention the doctrine of jihad in that sense and it appears that his intent was to link reformatory war to the suppression of apostasy, heresy, and dissidence rather than to force Islam on non-Muslims (Johnson, 1997: 72–3). Farabi’s approach was novel, partly because it disaggregated religious and political doctrines on the use of force and partly because the justification for using force was conditioned largely (though not entirely) on the opponents’ actions or transgressions, not their beliefs. However, like other

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Rationalist arguments, Farabi’s did not prevail in his time; the official doctrine of jihad remained as articulated by the contemporaneous jurists and unbelief remained a central element in Islamdom’s relationships with other states (Johnson, 1997: 75). In addition to the relationship between Islam and non-Islam, jihad also informs the political relationship between Islam and its followers. The classical Islamic jurisprudential literature assumes that the umma is (or should be) a unitary political community as well as a religious one, governed by a single Islamic government (Donner, 1991: 51). Muslim jurists regarded jihad as the means to establish God’s political supremacy, which was necessary to the supreme authority of God’s word (Khadduri, 1955: 59–60; Ghunaimi, 1968: 137). Jihad was not merely the extension of the abode of Islam, but also the enforcement of politico-religious authority.29 Such enforcement began with preserving faith and loyalty to the Caliph. The scriptural basis for this practice is Q. 5:33, which prescribes punishments for those who wage war against God and his Messenger; Kelsay (2007: 120) interprets this passage as a call to secure Islam from apostates and rebels. When Muhammad died in 632 CE, several Arab tribes claimed that their oaths of allegiance were annulled—hence also their tithe obligation. Most Arabs outside Hijaz broke from the central leadership and started following local prophets. Muhammad’s successor, Abu Bakr, declared war against these “apostates” and embarked on military campaigns against the false/fake prophets (the Riddah Wars, 632–633 CE). Although some tribes continued professing belief in God and Muhammad’s prophethood and claimed to seek only political separation, not religious, Abu Bakr rejected their positions, claiming that “wherever the religious leadership is admitted its corollary is political leadership” (Ghunaimi, 1968: 63). The central authorities’ position was that the breakaway tribes had pledged themselves to the immortal community of God, thus retracting that pledge was a sin against God (Aslan, 2005: 118–9). This is the basis in Islamic political theory for the claim that modern Muslim states’ leaders often attempt to wield religion as an instrument to legitimize their leadership. The Islamic world has been disunited since the Sunni-Shiite split after the death of Muhammad, and especially after the displacement of the single (Umayyad) caliphate in 750 CE in favor of the rival Abbasid dynasty. With no single religious figure to unambiguously legitimize war, Muslim rulers wielded religious and religiously sanctioned titles and institutions, including the waging of jihad, in order to proffer evidence of the legitimacy of their claim to rule the whole of Islamdom. The Islamic world is politically fractured, and some Muslim states seek to assert their leadership of the Islamic world by attacking other Muslim states that do not follow its lead, or demonstrate their leadership by showing that they can attack non-Muslim states and prevail. Toft (2007: 103) proposed this as the principal cause of religious civil wars undertaken by Muslims today: “religious outbidding,” in which political elites attempt to outdo each other in order to enhance their religious credentials and thereby gain the support they need to counter an immediate threat. The same phenomenon may be unfolding in the domain of interstate armed conflict.

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Jihad may also serve as a cover for nationalist fervor. The “starting point” of Caliph Umar’s political strategy, as Ghunaimi (1968: 43) puts it, was that Islam should be the only religion tolerated in Arabia. Since political authority could not be completely dissociated from religions (Ayoob, 2008: 14), the propagation and enforcement of Islam through jihad grounded Umar’s claim to rule the whole of Arabia. Even if the practice of the Islamic state under Muhammad were geared toward simply unifying the Arabs rather than eradicating non-Islam, as Ghunaimi (1968: 180–3) claims, its practice under Umar was geared toward both—starting with the deportation of non-Muslims from Hijaz entirely (id.: 64). But the nationalist fervor could be specifically Arab as well; Zakaria (2003: 131), Manji (2005: 143), and Ajami (2006) all argue that Islamic militarism is really a religious veneer for Arab militarism. Islam’s relations with other religions As already noted, Islamic thought is rather antipathetic toward non-Islam. Islam’s treatment of polytheism and paganism has already been mentioned, but other monotheistic religions are also disfavored in Islamic scripture, especially Judaism and Christianity. In Muslim eyes, Jews and Christians have fallen away from the right path set by Abraham, who is regarded as the original Muslim. In addition, Islam views the Christian practice of worshipping a triune god (God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) as a form of polytheism in disguise. Chapter 2 of the Quran contains numerous obloquies against the Jews and Christians on these grounds.30 The scriptural basis for actually fighting Jews and Christians is Q. 9:29. Muslims are to fight against those who do not believe in God or the Last Day, who do not forbid what God and (or through) his messenger Muhammad have forbidden, who have not performed dana (discussed shortly), and until they pay the jizya (tax) submissively. Beyond this paraphrasing, the translations are sufficiently varied as to engender questions. One pertains to the meaning of the Arabic word dana. In order to be spared, according to most translations, one must follow, or embrace or acknowledge, the “religion of truth” (which, to Muslims, is of course Islam). The Haleem translation, in contrast, reads “obey the rule of justice,” which Haleem (9:29, note b) claims is a reference to breaking the jizya contract. The second question is whether only one of the criteria above must be satisfied to make a person the object of hostility, or all of them. The third question is whether those four criteria are intended to demarcate one subset of Jews and Christians (“the People of the Book who have committed those offenses”) or articulate a justification for fighting all of them (“the People of the Book, who have committed those offenses”). None of the translations are clear on these points, but it would seem highly unlikely that any Jews or Christians could fulfill the third and fourth criteria—forbidding what Muhammad forbids and embracing the “religion of truth,” which is Islam—without sacrificing their own religious identities, i.e. capitulating to the very demand that would motivate them to defend themselves against Islam. The plain meaning of Q. 9:29 must be to legitimize war

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against Christians and Jews in order to secure their submission to Muslim authority and payment of the poll tax—no other interpretation makes sense. As noted earlier, the nature of the Islamic war ethic as it relates to Christianity and Judaism today is further rooted in Islamic historical tradition. A prominent part of the historical narrative is the “steady deterioration” of relations between the early Muslims in Medina and the Jewish tribes there (Kelsay, 2007: 25). Islamic history chronicles a series of battles by Muhammad and his early followers for the defense of Medina against the Quraysh (the tribe that dominated Mecca). Several Medinan clans that were Jewish were suspected of clandestinely supporting the Quraysh. One Jewish clan opposed Muhammad openly, and Muhammad’s heretofore lenient sentencing of his political opponents to exile instead of the traditional mass execution or enslavement ended (Aslan, 2005: 89–94).31 Accounts of the Jewish tribes in Arabia in traditional sources tend to contain rather incendiary language when referring to the Jews, e.g. “noxious” and “hypocrites” (e.g. Subhani, n.d.: chap. 43). In the case of the Christians, several sources trace the origin of Islamic antipathy to the murder of Muhammad’s ambassador to the Byzantines (Ghunaimi, 1968: 70–2; Watt, 1962: 43–4, 108, 345; Ali, 1967: 90–1). According to tradition, Muhammad sent Dihyah ibn Khalifah al-Kalbi on a mission to “Caesar” (the Byzantine Emperor), calling on him to accept Islam, and Emperor Heraclius was deeply impressed. On his return journey, the ambassador was carrying Byzantine gifts when he was plundered by the Banu Judham, a tribe in southern Syria. In another account, Muhammad sent an ambassador to the Ghassanid prince, an Arab feudatory of the Byzantine Emperor. The ambassador was “cruelly murdered” by another chief of the same family. Muhammad responded by sending a punitive expedition. This vignette forms the basis of Ghunaimi’s (1968: 70–1) claim that the Byzantines are responsible for inaugurating the belligerent relationship between Islam and Christianity; Ali (1967: 90–1) calls the “wanton outrage” the casus belli of Islam against Christendom. Whether these claims are justified or not (and I argue that they are not32), the hostility of Ali and other Muslim authors toward non-Islam has roots in Islamic historical tradition as well as scripture. Other factors Several additional factors, not necessarily rooted in religion, may compound the permissive nature of the Islamic war ethic. One may be the natural inability of a universalist state to tolerate the existence of any other (Khadduri, 1955: 17, 51). Such is the inevitable consequence of one political entity claiming entitlement to dominion over all others. A theory of a universal state recognizes no equal status for other parties; it follows that any law of nations espoused by that state would be predicated not on principles of mutual consent or reciprocity, but rather on that state’s own interpretation of its political, moral, and religious interests, as the state would regard its own principles as superior to any others. This was the case for the law of ancient Rome, and Muslim authors claim not unreasonably that it was

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the case for medieval Christendom also. It is also the case for the Muslim law of nations (Khadduri, 1955: 44–5). A second factor may be the personal incentives of Muslim combatants to achieve martyrdom. The Afterlife offers permanent relief from the harsh realities of life in this world, especially for the pre-Islamic Arabs who lived in the desert and for whom warfare (along with the destruction and injustice that comes with it) was a way of life as natural for them as the digital age is today. In Islam, salvation is achieved through earthly works, and death in battle in the service of Islam is considered the surest path to the cleansing of sin and admission into heaven—all others must first face trial before being admitted (Khadduri, 1955: 61–2; Cook, 2005: 15).33 The heavenly rewards for martyrdom are lavish indeed (e.g. Q. 3:145; 158, 169-71; see Kelsay, 2007: 26; Tibi, 1996: 138). A third factor may be the influence of pre-Islamic and non-Islamic cultures and norms on the development of Islam. It may be significant to the development of the Islamic war ethic that Islam emerged among the Arabs, whom Khadduri, Ghunaimi, Donner, Sachedina, and Lawrence (1991) all characterize as already a warlike culture. For example, in the harsh climate in which the Arabs lived, caravan raids were considered a legitimate means of wealth-acquisition in preIslamic Arabia (provided that no blood was spilled). In the earliest period of Islam, before Muhammad’s return to Mecca, Muhammad organized caravan raids and even participated in them, to provide much needed funds, garner attention to the movement, and divert wealth away from his Meccan enemies and toward his Medinan friends (Aslan, 2005: 82). The doctrine of jihad, writes Khadduri (1955: 62), was not meant to pacify the constantly warring Arab tribes, but rather to channel their warlike nature into building a unified, stronger state.34 Islamic theorists such as the 14th century CE historian Ibn Khaldun, hailed as the Thucydides of Islam, perceived warfare as intrinsic to history and never expected it to cease (see Hashmi, 1996: 148). In his and others’ views, the problematique of warfare was not whether to fight (non-Muslims), but simply how best to fight (Lawrence, 1991: 144). Several authors also have advanced the ill-considered proposition that the doctrine of jihad against non-Muslims was socialized into the Islamic state by the war ethics of the empires surrounding it. Arabia was “sandwiched” (Ghunaimi’s word) between the Byzantine and (pre-Islamic) Persian empires; Islamdom emerged in a geopolitical environment of protectorates and suzerains (Ghunaimi, 1968: 10). Aslan and Sizgorich thus argue independently that the Muslims simply imitated the behavior of other grand empires. Aslan (2005: 79–80) goes as far as to claim that it is Western aggression that has made Muslim militants what they are today. Sizgorich makes much of the holy war sentiments of the Byzantines: When the Muslim armies appeared to claim what was theirs by God’s decree, … they encountered in the Christian Romans [the Byzantines] an empire that was long accustomed to doing the Lord’s work with the sword. This, at least, is the contention of most of our early Muslim sources…. [T]he taking up of the sword against the enemies of God was a practice shared in

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The permissive war ethic in Islam common between Christian Rome and nascent Islam. Indeed, these [early Muslim] narratives insisted that the sanctified violence undertaken by Heraclius in his wars with the Persians precisely mirrored the holy war waged by Muhammad and his followers against the powerful tribal confederation of Quraysh [the Meccan tribe that persecuted Muhammad], and that the struggle waged in Arabia against unbelief and that waged between Romans and Persians were in fact near duplicates for one another, differentiated only in scale. (2009: 902–3)

Such arguments, while compelling, do not withstand closer scrutiny. For starters, jihad against disbelief began as a movement to unify Arabia in religious purity, not to balance against powerful and threatening neighbors. This, in fact, was Muhammad’s original calling (Kelsay, 2007: 26–7). Secondly, the holy war ethic in Christianity, while prominent during the Crusades, had not yet developed at the time of early Islamic territorial expansion. Third, the Crusades themselves were a Western response to the long history of incursions into Christendom by the Muslims, both in the Byzantine Empire and in Italy. A few specific assertions of Aslan’s undermine his own argument: First, Aslan is trying to compare the Muslims’ behavior to that of other theocratic kingdoms around them, but for him to cast the Byzantine Empire as a theocracy is as much a stretch as it would be to cast Saudi Arabia, also a highly religious state, as a theocracy today. Second, in attempting to explain Middle-Age Western “aggression” against Muslims, Aslan claims that the Holy Roman Empire was fractured and that it needed to distinguish itself from the Turks, “who were strangling it from all sides” (2005: 79; emphasis added), yet he has nothing to say to justify why the Turks were doing so. Sizgorich’s (2009) claim that the Byzantines socialized the early Muslims to conquest may be somewhat better grounded, but still does not withstand closer scrutiny. Although it is true that Byzantine Emperor Heraclius was religious and also embarked on many military campaigns, the Byzantine war against the Sassanid Persians had little to do with religion and nothing to do with propagating Christianity. Heraclius inherited that war, the last in a cycle of wars and accords begun by the Persians. The Byzantines’ immediate motivations were self-defense and restoration of the status quo ante (including repatriation of Christian relics that the Persians had appropriated). Their larger, geopolitical motivation was, of course, acquisition of power to safeguard their security from outside invaders, as was the desire of every state during that period (and according to Realists, still is today). The only war ethic being socialized to the Muslims, if any at all, was that of Realism. The ethic war of holy war was not socialized to the Muslims—in that time and place, rather, it originated with them. The Islamic war ethic today To what extent does the war ethic described above translate to the modern Muslim world? Several studies of Islamic public opinion suggest an answer. In a survey of Lebanese Muslims conducted after the 9/11 attacks, over one-third of the

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respondents identified themselves as “radical” to some degree, with 15% identifying themselves as “highly radical” (Haddad and Khashan, 2002: 820). A “sweeping majority” felt that Arab grievances against the United States warranted the attack, 30% said they actually supported the attacks, and more than one-third supported a follow-up attack with weapons of mass destruction. Nearly half of the respondents either strongly or moderately approved of the attacks (id.: 821). Studies of this nature tend to discount the role of Islam in generating such sentiments, but I submit that Islam’s role is being downplayed more than it should be. Furia and Lucas (2006, 2008) examine causes of unfavorable Arab public opinion toward the United States. They argue that Arab publics approve and disapprove of other states based on their foreign policies toward the Middle East, rather than by virtue of those other states being Muslim, non-Muslim, or nonArab. Their empirical findings do suggest that Arab disapproval of the United States is motivated partly by its Israel and Iraq policies (2006: 596; 2008: 195–8), along with Arab disapproval of Turkey (a fellow Muslim state) for largely the same reasons (2006: 599). However, Furia and Lucas understate or neglect effects of the respondents’ own Arab identities. They show that respondents with predominant “Arab consciousnesses” are significantly less likely to approve of several Western countries (except, notably, France–which has one of the highest percentage of Muslims in Western Europe). They do find a specifically “Islamic” consciousness usually to have no statistically significant effect. However, the Arab nation as a whole is overwhelmingly Muslim, the claim of brotherhood within the umma resonates strongly, and as shown above, Arab nationalism historically has been fueled by Islam. Tessler and Robbins (2007) make a similarly problematic claim: that among Muslims in Algeria and Jordan, negative opinion of U.S. foreign policy is correlated with support for terrorism, whereas higher religious involvement and higher support for political Islam are not. Their implication that Islam is not a factor in preferences for war is similarly not persuasive, for Islam is a strong factor in those negative opinions of U.S. foreign policy. Empirical relationships with use of force The analysis above yields the proposition that the Islamic war ethic lies on the permissive side of the spectrum of war ethics, which ranges from highly permissive to highly restrictive. This hypothesis is testable by regressing initiation of interstate armed conflict on the Muslim GRP of states with Islam as the (or a) Preferred religion. A positive coefficient for Muslim Preferred GRP indicates that Muslim states are more likely than non-Muslim states to be the first user of force in an interstate dispute. Table 5.1 presents the results of such regressions in the four standard models used in this book. The first and most notable finding is that Muslim GRP coefficients are positive in every model. They are significant at 95% confidence in three of the models; in the fourth (Model 2B, fatal armed conflicts with many controls), Muslim GRP is significant at a more relaxed confidence interval of

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Table 5.1 RELogit regression on Muslim Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

Muslim Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0649 (.0186)***

.0657 (.0217)**

.0574 (.0284)*

.0682 (.0387)a

2.0698 (.0095)***

.2813 (.0301)*** 2.8209 (.0212)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)b Pseudo-R-squaredb

1.0024 (.1775)*** .2495 (.1429) 2.1762 (.0787)*

2.0335 (.0112)** 2.0863 (.0170)*** 2.0194 (.0090)* .1044 (.1458)

2.0479 (.0192)* 2.0013 (.0120) 2.1846 (.2810)

.0271 (.2865) .7649 (.2461)**

.1968 (.5780) 1.0100 (.3808)**

2.8624 (.2595)**

2.9053 (.6149) 2.0401 (.0616) 2.5358 (.0402)

.2188 (.0392)*** 2.8349 (.0307)***

1,014,444 25,040 2073.49

.1777 (.0440)*** 2.5570 (.0282)*** 1.6994 (.2128)*** .3693 (.1997) .7961 (.1618)*** 1.2815 (.2227)*** .4319 (.1911)* 2.2867 (.0195)*** 24.5191 (.4436)*** 1,014,444 25,040 4271.22

25.8195 (.4716)*** 1,014,444 25,040 1281.72

.6994 (.2817)* 2.3006 (.0314)*** 23.6002 (.5809)*** 1,014,444 25,040 2223.53

.2352

.3252

.2126

.3103

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant

.4766 (.1232)*** .4769 (.0930)*** 2.0720 (.0505)

25.5425 (.3709)

1.3293 (.3743)*** .8496 (.2944)** .8709 (.2325)*** 1.6498 (.3303)***

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a p,.078. b Diagnostics via logit command.

90%. These findings support the proposition that states with regime preferences for Islam are more likely than other states to initiate interstate armed conflicts. It may also be concluded that Islam’s positive effects are not as pronounced as Christianity’s negative effects. Muslim GRP’s coefficients are uniformly weaker than Christian GRP’s coefficients in the same models. The differences between Model 1 (all armed conflicts) and Model 2 (deadly armed conflicts only) also are

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noteworthy. Muslim GRP’s coefficient in Model 2A is weaker in both value and significance than in Model 1A. Its coefficient in Model 2B is stronger than in Model 1B, but its significance is much weaker—falling outside the conventional 95% confidence interval. In addition, the effect of Islam’s permissive war ethic is slightly weaker, not stronger, when only deadly armed conflicts are counted. Among the Rule of 3 models (1A and 2A), the absolute value of the coefficient is lower in Model 2A and its significance is weaker; among the Kitchen Sink models (1B and 2B), the coefficient’s absolute value in Model 2B is greater but its significance is weaker. In the end, however, the findings support the overall proposition that Muslim states with higher Muslim GRP scores are more likely to initiate interstate armed conflicts. However, the empirical results are more tempered than the traditional scripture and classical war ethics—formulated at a time of much greater Islamic political power—would have predicted. They suggest that for Islam overall (all branches combined), and over the long term (since 1946, not just since the Iranian Revolution or 9/11), the more militant aspects of the traditional Islamic war ethic affect public opinion more strongly than governments’ policies. I draw this conclusion after comparing the coefficients for Muslim Percentage with those for Muslim GRP.35 These figures were reported in Chapter 3, Tables 3.3 and 3.7, respectively. The independent variables in both models are scaled from 0 to 10. The GRP coefficients are uniformly stronger. However, Muslim Percentage is statistically significant in all models, whereas Muslim GRP is significant only at the lowest threshold of armed conflict initiation. When only deadly armed conflicts are counted (Model 2), Muslim GRP’s correlation is inconclusive at best. Figure 5.1 graphs the estimated probability of initiating an interstate armed conflict against the Muslim GRP score for states with Muslim regime preferences. The effect of Muslim partisanship is visible and significant. In Model 1B (any armed conflict, Kitchen Sink controls), the estimated probability of using force first in any given directed-dyad year is just over .0003 for a hypothetical Muslim state practicing the ideal type of religion-state separation, treating all religions equally, and allowing complete religious freedom for all religions (corresponding to a GRP score of 4 on the 0–10 scale). For a hypothetical Muslim state with the maximum Muslim preference—Islam is official, Islamic education is required, and Islam is highly favored and other religions severely repressed—its probability of using force is estimated at just under .0005, an increase of almost two-thirds. In Model 2B (same controls but for fatal armed conflicts), the respective probabilities are estimated at about .0001 for the separationist Muslim state and .00015 for the maximally partisan Muslim state, a 50% increase; however, the margin of error is so wide that the maximally partisan Muslim state’s probability could be about the same or even less. An additional set of models is necessary to determine the extent, if any, to which Muslim countries’ greater propensities toward interstate armed conflict is skewed by the Arab states’ hostilities toward Israel. On one hand, mainstream Islamic thought traditionally and historically is hostile toward Jews for reasons

The permissive war ethic in Islam

0

Pr (Y=1) .0002 .0004 .0006 .0008 .001

142

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Muslim GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 5.1 RELogit regression on Muslim Preferred GRP score.

recounted above and radical Islamic thought is even more so. On the other hand, for centuries Jews did live in greater security in Muslim-controlled lands than in Europe, and the hostility toward modern Israel among Christian Arabs is also significant. For these reasons, Table 5.2 reports the results of the same models as Table 5.1, except that all dyads containing Israel are removed. If hostility against Israel were skewing the results in Table 5.1 toward greater propensity by Muslim states to initiate interstate armed conflicts, then the Preferred Muslim GRP coefficients in Table 5.2 should be weaker than those in Table 5.1. This is the case in the A models, which control only for three other factors. But in the B models, the independent variable is stronger, not weaker. Eliminating dyads containing Israel raises those coefficients’ absolute values by about one-third and strengthens their statistical significance—and in Model 2B, restores it. In contrast, unreported regressions of models with only dyads containing Israel yielded results that were completely meaningless: in the A models, not even the constants were statistically significant and the B models generated missing matrix errors. These results suggest that Islam does not influence governments’ official hostilities toward Israel. Rather than skewing Preferred Muslim GRP’s correlation stronger and more significant, anti-Israel hostility actually skews its correlation weaker and less significant. Although only one-sixth of the world’s Muslims are non-Sunni and comparatively few Muslim states’ governments have non-Sunni preferences, effects of Sunni and Shia Islam are measured separately for the purpose of completeness.

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Table 5.2 RELogit regression on Muslim Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad (excluding dyads containing Israel).

Muslim Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad? European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0638 (.0188)***

.0898 (.0221)***

.0443 (.0292)

.0937 (.0409)*

.4829 (.1288)*** .4771 (.0955)*** 2.0842 (.0525)

1.0040 (.1841)*** .2397 (.1463) 2.2086 (.0826)*

2.0390 2.0928 (.0118)*** (.0189)*** 2.0247 (.0094)** .1268 (.1392)

2.0581 (.0218)** 2.0035 (.0124) 2.1196 (.2772)

.1732 (.2932) .7126 (.2563)**

.3711 (.5883) .8576 (.3872)* 2.7832 (.6257)

25.8963 (.3846)*** 999,103 24,723 1951.23

2.8670 (.2700)*** .2142 (.0448)*** 2.5487 (.0287)*** 1.7109 (.2178)*** .4820 (.2038)* .8436 (.1639)*** .8212 (.2088)*** .4506 (.1935)* 2.2901 (.0196)*** 24.9701 (.4463)*** 999,103 24,723 4001.72

.2302

.3197

2.0741 (.0100)***

.3062 (.0310)*** 2.8096 (.0214)***

.2534 (.0397)*** 2.8061 (.0311)***

.0137 (.0638) 2.5154 (.0412)*** 1.2278 (.3839)***

26.3220 (.4812)*** 999,103 24,723 1181.67

.9479 (.2993)** .9392 (.2352)*** .9235 (.3144)** .7200 (.2827)* 2.2979 (.0317)*** 24.2736 (.5662)*** 999,103 24,723 2141.25

.1981

.2900

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

Table 5.3 reports results of regressions on Preferred Sunni Muslim GRP score. In Model 1 (lowest armed conflict threshold), Sunni GRP’s coefficients are not only much weaker than those of Muslim GRP but also are not statistically significant (whereas Muslim GRP’s coefficients are). Apparently, devoutly partisan Sunni governments are no more or less likely to initiate interstate armed conflicts than governments of Sunni states that are less devout and less partisan. However, in Model 2 (only deadly armed conflicts), Sunni GRP’s coefficients are stronger and

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The permissive war ethic in Islam

Table 5.3 RELogit regression on Sunni Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

Sunni Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0242 (.0195)

.0124 (.0213)

.0612 (.0297)*

.0817 (.0353)*

.3872 (.1218)*** .4802 (.0923)*** 2.0736 (.0501)

.9905 (.1769)*** .2545 (.1447) 2.1769 (.0785)*

2.0313 (.0112)** 2.0869 (.0169)*** 2.0272 (.0088)** .1098 (.1508)

2.0479 (.0192)* 2.0024 (.0116) 2.1936 (.2856)

.0525 (.2926) .7410 (.2449)**

.1667 (.5801) 1.0254 (.3832)** 2.9379 (.6080)

25.2194 (.3490)*** 1,014,444 25,040 2050.22

2.8544 (.2654)*** .2042 (.0440)*** 2.5555 (.0285)*** 1.5367 (.2153)*** .2308 (.1977) .8395 (.1663)*** 1.4642 (.2166)*** .3778 (.1950) 2.2887 (.0195)*** 24.5364 (.4392)*** 1,014,444 25,040 4319.76

.2328

.3237

2.0761 (.0096)***

.2663 (.0288)*** 2.8233 (.0211)***

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

.2238 (.0393)*** 2.8352 (.0308)***

2.0244 (.0599) 2.5375 (.0405)*** 1.3880 (.3712)*** .8723 (.2932)** .8571 (.2334)*** 1.6625 (.3116)***

25.8707 (.4783)*** 1,014,444 25,040 1262.92

.6748 (.2771)* 2.3009 (.0313)*** 23.7614 (.5774)*** 1,014,444 25,040 2194.30

.2127

.3111

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

more significant than those of Muslim GRP. These results suggest that Muslim states’ greater propensities than non-Muslim states’ for low-level armed conflict are driven either by non-Sunni Islam or by confounding factors not included in these models. However, the results also suggest that Sunni Islam is a factor in Muslim states’ greater propensities to initiate armed conflicts with fatalities. Figure 5.2 graphs the estimated probability of interstate armed conflict initiation against Preferred Sunni GRP. The confidence intervals of the two upper

145

0

.0002

Pr (Y=1) .0004 .0006

.0008

The permissive war ethic in Islam

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Sunni GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 5.2 RELogit regression on Sunni Preferred GRP score.

curves (Model 1) clearly are too wide for Sunni Islam to have a conclusive relationship. In the lowest curve (Model 2B), the probability of an ideally secular Sunni state (Preferred Sunni GRP54) initiating a deadly armed conflict is .0001; that probability rises to .00017 for a maximally partisan Sunni state (Preferred Sunni GRP510), an increase of 70%.

The war ethic in Shia Islam The Shia branch of Islam emerged over a dispute over the legitimacy of the Prophet Muhammad’s succession. Shiites believe his rightful successor and Imam was Ali, as opposed to Sunnites’ recognition of Abu Bakr. The Quran and hadith are major canons in both Sunni and Shia Islam. However, Shia Islam also recognizes as canon the declarations of the Infallible Imams (Feirahi, 2009). The contents of the Shiite war ethic and its differences from Sunniism are well researched and documented by Feirahi (2009) and Morkevicius (2010), and this section offers only a brief summary of their findings. In Shia Islam, offensive jihad can take place only by prescription of the Infallible Iman. However, the final Imam (the Mahdi) is in occultation—not present on earth—therefore jihad may be undertaken for defensive purposes only (see also Ridgeon, 2004: 165). One therefore might expect the modern Shiite war ethic to be significantly more restrictive than its Sunni counterpart, since modern Sunniism has no similar restriction on offensive jihad. However, Morkevicius (2010: 157–60) documents how several Shiite dynasties worked around this restriction. The Fatimids claimed to be the descendants of the

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The permissive war ethic in Islam

true Imam, thus having the authority to prescribe offensive jihad. The Safavid dynasty, which imposed Shiism as official in Persia, made similar claims, though that claim did not enjoy majority support from the ulamas. The Qajar dynasty, on the other hand, claimed only to be the “deputy” of the hidden Imam (Morkevicius’s word) and adopted a system of dual authority. Thus the ulamas were willing to defer to the Shah’s political judgment to make jihad against Russia in the 19th century. Contemporaneous writings reinterpreted the meaning of “defensive” jihad for this purpose. Sheikh Jafar, writing in 1809, legitimizes jihad against an enemy that seeks “to make the word of unbelievers dominant and strong and the word of Islam weak” (Morkevicius, 2010, citing Lambton, 1970: 187–8). The Risalayi-jihadiya, an 1819 Persian treatise, classifies defensive jihad into four types: (1) defend against an attack by unbelievers; (2) prevent unbelievers from gaining control over Muslims; (3) repel unbelievers for fear that they may gain ascendency over Muslims; and (4) evict unbelievers who have conquered Muslim lands (Morkevicius, 2010: 159, citing Kohlberg, 1976: 83). These varieties of casus belli are significantly broader than those outlined in contemporary jus ad bellum (occurrence of an armed attack; UN Charter, art. 51) or Christian just war theory in which the attacked party “deserves to be attacked on account of some fault” (emphasis added). Indeed, the Risala’s fourth category of defensive jihad opens the door to renewal of offensive operations long after Muslims had lost their previous war and made peace. Sachadina’s (2002) concern, pertaining to Islam generally, about defensive jihad being broadened too far beyond its original meaning resonates all the more given his Shi’ite heritage and scholarship. Another element of the Shi’ite war ethic is extolment of the martyr (shahid). This element is not confined to Shiism—its foundation is traceable to the Quran—but as Feirahi (2009) and Morkevicius (2010) both note, martyrdom is a central theme in Shi’ite history. As already mentioned, the heavenly rewards for dying for the cause of Islam are quite lavish, especially compared to those for Muslims dying of other causes (Q. 3:14-5; 158, 169-71; see also Rapoport, 1988; Kushner, 1996; Tibi, 1996: 138; Israeli, 2002; Kelsay, 2007: 26).36 They include extremely bountiful sexual pleasures for men, as described graphically in some hadith literature (Cook, 2005: 27–8)—the 70 beautiful virgins and the like (Bukay, 2006, citing Q. 44:514; 52:17-20; 55:47-72 passim; 56:224). Thayer and Hudson (2010) attribute the appeal of martyrdom among Muslim men—the most likely combatants in the Muslim world—to two factors. One is circumstances diminishing their likelihood to procreate, such as inability to financially support a wife let alone afford the traditionally lavish wedding. The other factor is a culture of polygyny that reduces the availability of women to the less affluent. Their logic is sound, but it may suggest a further motivator that they do not address directly: the male sex drive, which may propel sexually repressed and denied young men to extremes where older or more fulfilled men may not go. However, this potential factor is presented only cautiously, for it is not tested (nor seems it likely testable). Table 5.4 reports results of regressing on Preferred Shia GRP. The coefficients for Preferred Shia GRP are much stronger than those for Preferred Sunni GRP.

The permissive war ethic in Islam

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Table 5.4 RELogit regression on Shia Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

Shia Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.1472 (.0214)***

.1081 (.0221)***

.1114 (.0339)***

.0502 (.0303)a

2.0704 (.0088)***

.2658 (.0301)*** 2.8243 (.0212)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)b Pseudo-R-squaredb

.9262 (.1932)*** .2495 (.1455) 2.1738 (.0782)*

2.0343 (.0115)** 2.0886 (.0146)*** 2.0200 (.0086)* .1588 (.1429)

2.0471 (.0203)* 2.0065 (.0114) 2.1517 (.2873)

.0492 (.3048) .7082 (.2529)**

.2272 (.5778) .9709 (.3920)*

2.8182 (.2781)**

2.8721 (.6409) 2.0231 (.0625) 2.5329 (.0400)*** 1.1480 (.3678)**

.2028 (.0403)*** 2.8378 (.0312)***

25.3138 (.3546)*** 1,014,444 25,040 2194.44

.1802 (.0445)*** 2.5528 (.0285)*** 1.5604 (.2251)*** .2928 (.2020) .9529 (.1674)*** 1.2235 (.2208)*** .4491 (.1962)* 2.2861 (.0197)*** 24.4820 (.4541)*** 1,014,444 25,040 3969.97

25.5604 (.4793)*** 1,014,444 25,040 1327.22

.6570 (.2769)* 2.3013 (.0317)*** 23.5645 (.5960)*** 1,014,444 25,040 2283.32

.2405

.3268

.2144

.3094

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-years (cubic splines omitted) Constant

.4490 (.1223)*** .4685 (.0943)*** 2.0688 (.0508)

.7140 (.3092)* .9547 (.2325)*** 1.7398 (.2760)***

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a p,.097. b Diagnostics via logit command.

All are highly significant except for Model 2B (deadly armed conflicts only, many controls) and even that one is still significant at a more relaxed 90% confidence interval. However, caution is advisable against over-reliance on these results. Most countries with Shia Islam as a Preferred religion are coded as such only because they celebrate at least one distinctly Shi’ite holiday as a national holiday, co-equally with Sunni holidays (see Appendix A for a list). Only two countries

The permissive war ethic in Islam

0

Pr (Y=1) .0005 .001 .0015 .002 .0025

148

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Shia GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 5.3 RELogit regression on Shia Preferred GRP score.

are coded Preferred Shiite to the exclusion of all else (Iran and Azerbaijan) and Iraq’s Shi’ite dominated government took power only recently. The empirical results may be driven almost entirely by the behavior of Iran. Figure 5.3 graphs the probability of initiating any interstate armed conflict against Preferred Shia GRP (Model 1B). The probability of the ideally secular but accommodationist Shi’ite state doing so is about .0004 and that probability doubles when the state has the maximum Shia GRP score. For deadly armed conflicts only (Model 2B), the probability for the secular Shiite state is about .0001 and a maximum Shia GRP score raises that probability only by about 50% and with a wide confidence interval. Again, however, caution should be exercised in inferring anything conclusive from these results.

Conclusion In contrast to the Christian war ethic, which is demonstrated to be restrictive in the previous chapter, the war ethic of Islam overall appears to be permissive, i.e. states with Muslim regime preferences overall initiate interstate armed conflicts at a higher rate than states without such regime preferences. This correlation is shown to hold even when dyads involving Israel are removed from the model. As mentioned previously, Muslim GRP is found not to be correlated with the outcome of interest in dyads containing Israel and removing those dyads actually strengthens the relationship of Islam and states’ propensities to use force. However, it is more prudent to rely primarily on the weaker results. The weaker results still suggest a correlation, albeit a more modest one.

The permissive war ethic in Islam

149

When the Sunni and Shia branches are regressed individually, the results are somewhat inconsistent. In models measuring Muslim GRP, the stronger correlations are for all armed conflicts, from major to trivial. But in models measuring Sunni GRP, the stronger correlations are for deadly armed conflicts only. The situation is reversed for Shia GRP: the stronger correlations are in models containing all armed conflicts—though it is possible that this correlation is driven primarily by the behavior of one state (Iran). This is the reason for being cautious about attributing Shi’ite emphasis on martyrdom too strongly to the otherwise positive correlation. A propensity toward martyrdom is a propensity to use sufficient force against a target to induce the target to use deadly force. One therefore would expect Shi’ite GRP to be more strongly correlated to initiation of deadly armed conflicts, but in these models it is not. We now move to Buddhism.

Notes 1 The practitioners of the Ahmadi movement revere its founder as a prophet or messianic figure, putting the movement outside the boundaries of mainstream Islam. 2 Hashmi (1996: 148–9) puts it differently: humankind’s fundamental nature is “moral innocence, that is, freedom from sin.” Everybody is born with natural knowledge of God’s commandments. However, some choose to violate their nature and transgress. These corrupting influences of human society erode individuals’ moral awareness. 3 This sentiment reflects Islam’s misunderstanding of how to achieve salvation in Christian thought, as if Christians could simply declare that Jesus Christ is their savior and continue sinning with impunity. Rather, Christians believe that accepting Christ—genuinely—leads to the repentance of sin. 4 Citing Q. 3:106 and the Medina Charter (2018). 5 However, other Muslim scholars argue that the ruler, being divinely ordained, cannot be deposed for any reason, not even for violating the social contract (Khadduri, 1955: 12). 6 Khadduri characterizes the Islamic state as a “nomocracy,” in which the system of government is based on law. 7 Caliph Abu Bakr claimed that the corollary of religious leadership is political leadership (Ghunaimi, 1968: 63). 8 Furthermore, the rosy pictures of the Islamic conceptions of human dignity, women’s rights, individual freedoms, equality before the law, and tolerance, painted by Weeramantry (1988: chap. 5), do not comport with reality in many Muslim countries today. 9 On the Quranic roots of this juridical division, see Tibi (1996: 129–30). 10 Johnson likens the two abodes to the City of the World and City of God in Augustinian thought. The major differences, however, are that (1) Islam holds that the dar al-islam is achievable on earth, whereas Christianity holds that the City of God is not achievable, and (2) Islam assigns itself the sole capacity and prerogative to prescribe and create this right order on earth. 11 Ghunaimi mistakenly cites Q. 9:51. 12 Mayer does acknowledge, however, that Iran did not invoke Islamic law to justify holding American embassy personnel hostage to the International Court of Justice.

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The permissive war ethic in Islam

13 That entry takes place with the inclusion of the Ottoman Empire in the peace settlement ending the Crimean War. General Treaty for the Re-Establishment of Peace (Austria, France, Great Britain, Prussia, Russia, Sardinia, Turkey), Mar. 30, 1856, [Treaty of Paris], 46 BFSP 8, 114 CTS 409, 410. 14 Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW), Dec. 18, 1979, 1249 UNTS 13. 15 States Parties to CEDAW, 14th mtg., 23 June 2006, Item 6 of Provisional Agenda, U.N. Doc. CEDAW/SP/2006/2. https://documents-dds-ny.un.org/doc/UNDOC/GEN/ N06/309/97/PDF/N0630997.pdf?OpenElement. Accessed October 8, 2018. 16 The Ahmadiyya, however, are not considered a mainstream sect of Islam. 17 Weeramantry (1988: 115) asserts that Muslims have a duty to defend non-Muslims as well, but Sonbol would limit that duty to defending Jews and Christians only. 18 Citing Sobhi Mahmassani, Hasan Moinuddin, Sheikh Shaltut, Ghunaimi, and Sachedina. 19 The phrase “kill them wherever you find them,” interpreted by the most extremist radicals as a call to hunt down and exterminate non-Muslims, is interpreted by the mainstream as more limiting, for the overall context of the verse is to address whether Muslims may fight during holy times and in holy places (see Q. 2:191, trans. Haleem, note a). 20 In this work, the word “Allah” is interpreted as “God,” i.e. the god that would be worshipped in any monotheistic religion. 21 Kelsay (2007: 24) and Sonbol (2009: 288) also agree with this interpretation. 22 “Justice and faith” is Yusuf Ali’s translation of the Arabic word dīn, which implies many meanings. The syntax of the original Arabic version of Q. 2:193 is “until there is dīn for Allah.” 23 A potential counter-argument, taken up more thoroughly elsewhere in this chapter, is derived from Q. 9:4, which directs Muslims to continue honoring treaties with those mushrikˆun who have not breached them, until the end of their terms. This passage could be interpreted either as a broad injunction to deal honorably with honorable unbelievers, or as a narrow injunction freeing the Muslims from all obligations at the moment they expire. None of the translations resolve that question. 24 Among its most vehement critics was the scholar Taqi ad-Din Ahmed Ibn Taymiyya, whose extreme conservatism inspired the (now official) Wahhabi movement in Saudi Arabia and is also influential in radical Islam. 25 Citing Watt (1985: 25ff). This influence is evident in everyday Arabic speech today, which is peppered with expressions such as “insha-allah” (God-willing) and “alhamdu li-llah” (praise be to God). 26 Especially the Battle of Badr (624 CE), in which only two years after the Hejira (Muhammad’s flight from Mecca to Medina), Muhammad’s outnumbered forces were able to defeat and slay prominent members of the Quraysh tribe that had persecuted the Muslims in Mecca (Cook, 2005: 7). 27 Khadduri, “Translator’s Introduction,” in Shaybani (1966: 57–8). The specific work of Shafi’i cited, the Kitab al-Umm, is not available in English. See also Shafi’i (1993). 28 The same argument could be made for subjecting those suited for subjection and punishing a crime. 29 Fish (2002) shows a statistical correlation between predominantly Muslim populations and more autocratic Polity and Freedom House scores of states. Fish attributes the effects to reduced economic development (which in his design, negates Islam’s statistical significance), and to the subordination of women, rather than Islam. However,

The permissive war ethic in Islam

30

31

32

33 34 35

36

151

several weaknesses seriously undermine his claim that factors other than Islam are the root causes of autocracy. First, by his own admission, the subordination of women is strong in other countries that are not Muslim, yet the effect of Islam when he controls for gender equality is only moderately reduced (while still statistically significant), not negated entirely. Second, Fish’s evidence for ruling out religiosity as a factor is anecdotal and no longer convincing, given that religious regime preferences are now measurable. Third, although this study does not consistently control for economic development directly, it does control for other factors that are strongly correlated with economic development, e.g. GDP, and Islam’s effect is still statistically significant (in most models) nevertheless. Finally, Fish’s study covers only the 1990s, whereas this one covers over six decades. Jews and Christians also are banned from worshipping at the Kaaba (Q. 9:28) because their disbelief in the message of Muhammad makes them najasun (impure), just as other mushrikun (polytheists, pagans, idolaters, etc.) are (see especially trans. Hilali and Khan). Aslan attributes Muhammad’s treatment of the Jewish clan as a political event, not motivated by hatred of Judaism, and further notes that Jews were not expelled from Medina until the end of the 7th century CE under Caliph Umar, as part of a larger campaign to Islamicize Arabia. A closer examination of these accounts just mentioned seriously undermines the attribution of responsibility for the raid/murder to the Byzantines. The accounts indicate that the crimes against the ambassador(s) were committed by rogues, and there is no evidence that they were committed at the behest or even acquiescence of the political leadership of either the Byzantine Empire or its Ghassanid vassal. Furthermore, the Ghassanids were Arabs, and Muhammad was already on a quest to unify the Arabs under the Islamic banner, therefore he eventually would have attacked the Byzantine Empire anyway, in order to wrest the Arab vassals from Byzantine control. It appears more likely that the early Muslims used the incident(s) as an excuse to enter into hostilities against Christendom to extend their territorial domain, and in doing so create conditions conducive to Islam’s further propagation. It is also interesting to note that Watt’s (1962) rendition of the episode does not actually comport with the rendition that Ghunaimi attributes to Watt. Furthermore, Ali’s work (1967: 218–9) reads as a general polemic on the virtues of Islam and the vices of the Christians and Jews; he singles out Christianity for atrocities such as the Inquisitions, burnings at the stake, and racially motivated lynchings in the United States, while accounts of atrocities by Muslims such as those of the Janissaries, the Armenian genocide, and stonings are conspicuously absent. Such lack of objectivity and evenhandedness severely undermines the force of Ali’s argument. Cook cites Abdallah bin al-Mubarak, Kitab al-Jihad, an 8th century CE collection of hadith; that work was unavailable to this author. See also Ghunaimi (1968: 137), on outlawing all war among Arab tribes except the jihad. Note that this comparison is between Muslim Percentage and GRP, not between Muslim Majority Percentage and Preferred Muslim GRP. In those regressions, the differences in Islam’s coefficients are much less pronounced. Enayat (1982: 181–90) curiously glosses over this dimension of martyrdom, instead for reasons unknown confining his exposition to martyrdom as vicarious atonement.

6

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

Introduction The third most prominent religion in international relations is Buddhism, which in one form or another is the majority or Preferred religion in about one-fourteenth of the state-years from 1946 to 2010 (including many states with religious preferences coded in Table 3.1 as “mixed,” thus not included with the Buddhist states in that table). A list of states with Buddhist Preferences is included in Appendix A. The paucity of Buddhist states relative to Christian and Muslim states is one of several factors making measuring Buddhism’s effects more challenging. The sample size for Buddhist state-years is considerably smaller than that for the other religions examined in this work, elevating the risk that empirical results are driven more by the geopolitical circumstances of particular states that also happen to be Buddhist. A second challenge is that all Buddhist states are concentrated in a single geographic region (Asia-Pacific), raising the possibility that Buddhism’s effects cannot be separated from other geopolitical effects of the Asia-Pacific region. Although regional location can be (and is) controlled for, doing so has not yielded much more insight. A third challenge to measuring Buddhism’s effects is its tendency to intermix with other religions. I submit that Buddhism is so well intermingled with Confucianism and Taoism in China and Korea, and with Shintoism in Japan, that it is not easily separated from those other religions.1 For that reason, the RCS datasets (both GRP and demographics) feature the category “Buddhist Complex,” which amalgamates Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, and Shintoism. This challenge will be addressed by measuring effects of the Buddhist Complex as well. This chapter’s fundamental argument is that the Buddhist war ethic is incoherent and impossible to apply in modern statecraft. One reason is that Buddhist scripture itself is internally inconsistent. Another is that the three major branches of Buddhism in existence today—Theravada, Mahayana, and Tibetan—have developed different canons (though with some core commonalities) and those canons are vast compared to those of Christianity and Islam. Being considerably more diverse has rendered Buddhism considerably less unified. Unlike its Christian and Islamic counterparts, the Buddhist war ethic has no central, core

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

153

doctrine around which its variants can congregate. The result is that Buddhism has no influence on states’ actual preferences for war and peace. This is shown empirically as well. The logit regressions reported here reveal an overall positive correlation of Buddhism with a state’s propensity to initiate an interstate armed conflict, but none of those correlations are statistically significant.

A primer on Buddhist scripture The purest form of Buddhism is Theravada, prominent in Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia. Its foundational scripture is the Pali Canon, so named for its original language. The Pali Canon, also known as the Tripiṭaka (“Three Baskets”), is a collection of discourses and/or stories (suttas; in Sanskrit, sūtras) by and about the historical Buddha, his previous incarnations, and other figures. Its English translation is over 20,000 pages long, comprising several dozen volumes, and no single person is known to have translated it in its entirety. An outline of the structure of the Pali Canon is provided in Appendix B. The first comprehensive English translation was published by the Pali Text Society (PTS) in England, over several decades beginning in the late 19th century. Those original volumes (since reprinted several times, occasionally consolidated into fewer volumes) form the basis of the convention for abbreviating references to the Pali Canon used in English-language treatments of Buddhism today.2 A new translation by Wisdom Publications appears to deviate little from the PTS series in substance, but its language is more accessible to the modern reader, much as the New International Version of the Bible is more accessible to the modern reader than the King James Version. The Wisdom Publications series also includes the conventional references to the PTS series. When quoting the Pali Canon, this work endeavors to use Wisdom Publication translations as much as possible. The other major branch of Buddhism is Mahayana (“Great Vehicle”), practiced in China, Taiwan, Korea, and Japan. Its canon is even larger than the Pali Canon and is organized differently. Several parts of the Pali Canon are reproduced in Mahayana scripture but some portions of Mahayana scripture that are said to correspond to the Pali Canon are actually significantly different.3 Furthermore, the Mahayana canon includes much more material; an analogy would be if two-thirds of the Bible in one branch of Christianity were regarded as apocryphal in another. The collection most often cited in English-language treatments of Mahayana Buddhism is the Taishō Tripitaka, so named because it was compiled and published in Japan during the Taishō period in traditional Japanese history (the reign of Emperor Taishō, 1912–1926). The Taishō Tripitaka, also outlined in Appendix B, consists of 85 volumes containing nearly 3000 sutras. At the time of this chapter’s original drafting, it was not available in English, despite its many citations in English-language scholarship.4 A third branch of Buddhism, Vajrayana or “Tibetan” Buddhism, is practiced chiefly in Tibet, Bhutan, and Mongolia. Its canon, comprising the Kangyur and the Tengyur, is several hundred volumes and is an amalgamation of Mahayana and Vajrayana text. For lack of enough state-years in which it is Preferred, Tibetan Buddhism is not examined further.

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The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

As notable from the above survey of Buddhist scripture, Buddhism is highly decentralized, much more so than Christianity or Islam. The commonalities holding Buddhism’s many schools together are the veneration of the historical Buddha; the belief in a cycle of life, death, and reincarnation; the elevation of asceticism; and the belief that charity and sin have consequences in both one’s current and future lives (karma).

Basic Pali Canon political theory Because the Pali Canon is the original, “most authentic” Buddhist scripture (Deegalle, 2003: 123), much of it serves as the core code of Buddhist ethics across the various schools, making it the most appropriate starting point for examining the Buddhist war ethic. Much of this chapter is devoted to the Pali Canon as the Buddhist war ethic’s original scriptural basis. A separate section on Mahayana scripture will follow. The Pali Canon traces the root of all human evil ultimately to sensual pleasure (Mahādukkhakkhandha Sutta, MN 13, secs. 7-15; M i 85-7), i.e. stimulation of the five senses provoking lust (sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch). Lust for sensual pleasure instills desire to protect property and acquire more of it. However, doing so induces pain, grief, quarreling, conflict, fighting, crime, death, and rebirth in lower states including rebirth in hell. Lust afflicts everyone, from householders to nobles and kings—and through their kings, lust afflicts nations as well (see Gethin, 2007: 71). Although conflict ultimately is rooted in lust for pleasure, its proximate cause is property.5 The Cakkavatti-Sīhanāda Sutta, DN 26, sec. 10ff (D iii 65), traces society’s ills to failure of the otherwise righteous King Daḷhanemi to give property to the needy. By that one failure, the king allows poverty to become rampant and the kingdom descends into crime, lasciviousness, and finally murder.6 On the international plane, society’s descent manifests in insatiable appetite (my word) for conquest. In the Raṭṭapāla Sutta, MN 82, secs. 41-2 (M ii 71-4), a disciple of the Buddha illustrates this point to King Koravya, asking him what he would do upon learning that a rich but conquerable kingdom lies to the east. The King acknowledges that he in fact would conquer it. Asked about other such kingdoms to the south, west, and north, the King’s response is the same. The disciple’s point is that the wealthy inevitably desire more wealth; the ruler of the sea’s near shore covets the far shore as well. The measures necessary to remediate this state of sinfulness are quite drastic: withdrawal from the home life into homelessness, renouncing possessions, and seeking wisdom over wealth (see also Nakamura, 1974: 173). This is the life of the monkhood, which the historical Buddha embraced. The above may anchor the popular conception that Buddhism is a religion of pacifism and asceticism. And despite efforts to derive a “Buddhist just war theory” by linking Buddhist practice today with modern, Western just war concepts (e.g. Bartholomeusz, 2002), it is evident that the plain language of the Pali Canon does embrace total pacifism as the preferred ethic—anything else is sinful and entails

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negative consequences in the current life or the next one. However, it is also apparent that even Theravada Buddhist scripture is not entirely consistent in this respect, and the inconsistencies undermine the Buddhist war ethic’s coherence.

The war ethic of the Pali Canon The argument just made is supported in a series of explorations of the ethics of violence promulgated to the Buddhist monkhood, laity, and monarch. The ethic of violence for the Buddhist monkhood and laity The first duty of the Buddhist monkhood is to refrain from killing and renounce the “stick and the sword,” i.e. refrain even from doing physical harm without killing. The second duty is to refrain from “taking what is not given,” i.e. stealing (Sāmaññaphala Sutta, DN 2, sec. 43; D i 63). These two duties are reiterated throughout the Pali Canon (e.g. Cūḷahatthi-padopama Sutta, MN 27, sec. 12; M i 179).7 For the monkhood, this ethic is absolute; a single infraction, particularly an intentional one, warrants expulsion. But the Pali Canon also impresses these two duties on the laity as well (Sāleyyaka Sutta, MN 41, sec. 12 [M i 287]; Ghaṭīkāra Sutta, MN 81, sec. 18 [M ii 51]; Suttanipāta v. 394). No person, from the lowest laborer to the highest ruler, is absolved from moral culpability for taking life, even when doing so would be widely regarded as necessary. In the Dhānañjāni Sutta, MN 97, secs. 5-15 (M ii 186-8), the venerable Sāriputta visits the brahmin Dhānañjāni and inquires about the brahmin’s “diligence” (i.e. in moral living). The brahmin replies: How can we be diligent, Master Sāriputta, when we have to support our parents, our wife and children, and our slaves, servants, and workers; when we have to do our duty towards our friends and companions, towards our kinsmen and relatives, towards our guests, … and towards the king; and when this body must also refreshed and nourished? (sec. 5; trans. Ñāṇamoli and Bodhi) The brahmin goes on to lament that even acting contrary to the moral law (the dhamma) for the benefit of someone else would not spare punishment in hell (sec. 15). The strong implication is that even defense of others is condemned. The condemnation of soldiers, whose professional duties may include killing in defense of others, is stated elsewhere quite explicitly. Not even the teachings of Jesus in the New Testament are so absolute. In the Yodhājīva Sutta, SN 17, sec. 3 (S iv 308-10), a warrior asks the Buddha whether a soldier who dies in battle is reborn in heaven. The Buddha remains silent but the warrior presses the question. Finally the Buddha reluctantly replies that the mere act of going into battle manifests a feeling of hatred and desire to kill and harm others, thus one who dies in battle is reborn in hell. But lest one despair that there seems to be no escape from the harsher realities of society and life except by withdrawing entirely from the former and even

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occasionally renouncing the latter, another passage holds out the possibility that one actually could kill without punishment. In the Mahākammavibhanga Sutta, MN 136 (M iii 207ff), the Buddha grants that one could kill and/or commit other sins yet still be reborn in a happy place, and vice versa (that one could refrain from sin and still be reborn in an unhappy place!). In the case of the former, the actor may be punished now or in the future, maybe even in the next rebirth. A person reborn in a happy place despite having sinned either did something good or acquired a right view at the time of death. The inverse is true for having been reborn in an unhappy place despite refraining from sin. The lesson is that not all good and bad results are visible at the time of the act; an act could be prima facie bad yet have an overall good result. This passage dilutes the ethic of absolute pacifism and leaves an opening for harming or killing others to be righteous, when doing so benefits others (e.g. defending others). However, this sutta serves to confuse more than it clarifies, for it offers no guidance for defining when killing may be righteous. If a seemingly righteous act may result in punishment and a seemingly unrighteous act may not be punished, then the actor is left with no meaningful moral guidance, and virtually anything is justifiable. Even in the face of the inconsistency described above, some actors still may choose to follow the precepts of pacifism (and Buddhist mores are chosen by individuals rather than commanded by a godlike entity; Bartholomeusz, 2002: 46, citing Obeyesekere). But they eventually must face the dilemma of how to respond to an unjust threat to life, or to the need to force someone else to do something in order to achieve a moral result. In the Pali Canon, the Buddha himself is never harmed by anyone (at least, in his current life), but that is due to supernatural interventions against his attackers. Everyone else who is threatened must choose between protection (a sin) and submission (an injustice). The Buddhist ideal seems to be to refrain from using force to protect oneself, relying instead on protection from others. The Āṭānāṭiya Sutta, DN 32 (D iii 194ff), contains verses for the Buddhist monkhood and laity to recite for protection from hostile yakkhas, gandhabbas, and other “non-human” (otherworldly) beings. Such an attack would be warded off by other, presumably righteous non-human beings: “And all the non-human beings, full of rage, would overwhelm him with abuse. Then they would bend down his head like an empty bowl, and they would split his skull into seven pieces” (sec. 8 [D iii 203], trans. Walshe, emphasis added). These are verses that the Buddha, having received them from King Vessavaṇa, actually instructs his followers to recite (sec. 12 [D iii 206]). This passage serves as another example in which the putatively pacifist Buddhist ethic is actually incoherent, for it requires the Buddhist monkhood to pray and desire that violence be committed on others. Such a desire is directly antithetical to the Buddhist ideal of non-violence. Granted, the violence is done by and against non-human beings. But if non-violence is to be humankind’s ideal ethic, then why should it not be so also for non-humankind—who apparently do not live in nirvana, who interact with humans in this world, and who are no more God than humans are? The answer cannot be that the would-be protectors are simply evil themselves, for then they would not commit the good act of protecting

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others from harm. Nor can the answer be that they are supremely good, for the Buddha’s standard of perfect “goodness” is to renounce violence absolutely. Further undermining the Buddhist ethic of non-violence are passages depicting the Buddha as accompanied by a yakkha (which Schmithausen [1999: 56] translates as “demon”) who threatens violence against those who resist his bidding. In the Ambaṭṭha Sutta, DN 3, secs. 1.20 (D i 94-5), the Buddha poses an uncomfortable question to Ambaṭṭha and warns him that “[i]f you don’t answer, or evade the issue, if you keep silent or go away, your head will split [sic] into seven pieces” (trans. Walshe). At that moment, the demon Vijirapāni appears wielding a huge, blazing iron club; Ambaṭṭha is terrified and answers the question (sec. 1.21). An unnamed demon makes an identical threat in the Cūḷasaccaka Sutta, MN 35, secs. 13-4 (M i 231-2). In these passages, the purveyor of a supremely pacifist ethic himself is threatening violence against someone, in order to force that person to do his bidding. Granted, no violence is actually committed, but it would be illogical for an ethical system to prohibit the act of violence without also prohibiting its threat. Gethin (2007: 69) tries to explain this inconsistency away by arguing that the Buddha merely was making a factual statement of the consequences for refusing a Tathāgatha such as the Buddha; in warning Ambaṭṭha, the argument goes, Buddha actually is rescuing him from harm. However, no violence would be threatened at all if the Buddha did not so choose; the Buddha has enough control over the situation to ensure that no threat is made, yet he does nothing to prevent it. Statecraft and the ethic of war in the Pali Canon The Pali Canon says much about the Buddhist ideal of kingship, i.e. statecraft. We begin with the etiology of kingship in the Aggañña Sutta, DN 27, sec. 20 (D iii 92-3), which depicts a society that has devolved due to greed, lust, appetite, and vanity: Then those beings came together and lamented the arising of these evil things among them: taking what is not given [i.e. stealing], censuring, lying and punishment. And they thought: “Suppose we were to appoint a certain being who would show anger where anger was due, censure those who deserved it, and banish those who deserved banishment! And in return, we would grant him a share of the rice.” So they went to the one among them who was the handsomest, the best-looking, and most pleasant and capable, and asked him to do this for them in return for a share of the rice, and he agreed. (trans. Walshe) Hence the origin of the title rājā, which means “he who gladdens others with dhamma” (sec. 21; D iii 93). In Buddhist political theory, the state is not an end in itself; it is neither moral nor immoral, neither just nor unjust. Rather, the state is but an instrument toward some other end. As such, its jurisdiction encompasses all areas of human activity

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and its power is total and absolute. However, the state cannot exist independently of human agency; it is no mere abstraction or “thought-construct” (Gokhale, 1996: 20),8 but can only be exercised by and through people. It is precisely this association of totalitarian power with imperfect human beings that creates the fundamental dilemma of statecraft: orderly human existence is impossible without applying the state’s awesome power, but that power is easily (and often) misused. In Buddhism, the path toward resolving this dilemma is divine retribution (instead of deterrence) as punishment for the misuse of power. The early Buddhists viewed the world as a rational structure, in which rational laws should prevail and personal moral responsibility was enforced by the “iron law” (Gokhale’s words) of cause and effect. In this viewpoint, the state is an instrument not merely for punishment, but for the moral transformation of political man. The solution to the dilemma lies in the morality of a higher order, or dhamma (the Pali word; in Sanskrit, dharma; the word has also been loosely translated as “law”). Thus the early Buddhist attitude toward kingship is one of disquiet, or even fear, regarding its nature and functions (Gokhale, 1966: 15–6). In many passages of the Pali Canon, the power of kings is described as calamitous, like a fire or flood, and its exercise often motivated by greed and wrath. Yet the attitude is also one of resignation that kingship is “absolutely essential” to maintaining order and security—without it, the world descends into anarchy. Buddhism thus seeks to “tame” kings’ absolute power by infusing morality into it. The overall theme of the Pali Canon, where it relates to kingship, is to highlight the king’s beneficial role—providing internal security, protecting from external aggression, and encouraging moral conduct (Zimmermann, 2006: 223–4). The king has an additional purpose and function: the moral transformation of the subjects. The Pali Canon portrays the ideal king as equipped with the best moral and intellectual qualities, who rules according to dhamma (Zimmermann, 2006: 223–4). He achieves this by setting the highest example of personal conduct: living a life of purity and contemplation. To fail in this task is to weaken his power and invite social disintegration, threat of lawlessness, and ultimately loss of security of life and property (Gokhale, 1966: 20). According to the Nandiyamiga-Jātaka, J 385 (Ja iii 274), the ideal king rules according to ten virtues: “Alms, morals, charity, justice and penitence, / Peace, mildness, mercy, meekness, patience: / These virtues planted in my soul I feel, / Thence springs up Love and perfect inward weal.” It is inferred from the suttas on the origins of sin, strife, and the devolution of society, recounted above, that a kingdom ruled in accordance with those virtues enjoys prosperity, internal security, and external security. That righteous kingship results in prosperity and low crime is intuitively logical in both the classical liberal and Marxist political theories of the West. But instead of extolling the naturally occurring benefits of righteous kingship, the Pali Canon extols supernaturally occurring benefits. In The Book of the Fours, AN iv, chap. 7, sec. 10 (A ii 74-6), having a righteous king is said to result in righteousness of ministers, brahmins, householders, townsfolk, and villagers, in that order. The heavenly bodies then “go right in their courses,” as do days and nights, months,

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and seasons. Rain falls seasonably and crops ripen; people are healthy. All of these things “go wrong” and “are out of joint” when the king is unrighteous. In the second Rājovāda Jātaka, J 334 (Ja iii 110-2),9 the king ensures the sweetness of fruits and honey by ruling according to dhamma; as soon as he deviates from righteous rule, the fruits turn bitter. That external security would flow from adhering to the ten royal virtues, especially mildness, mercy, and meekness, is not so easily derived logically. The Pali Canon does contain vignettes in which non-resistance results in security from aggression and conquest, but that security is obtained through supernatural means. In the Mahāsīlava Jātaka, J 51 (Ja i 132), the kingdom of Kosala is conquered and King Mahāsīlavant refrains from defending the kingdom; miraculously, the usurper’s heart is moved and he voluntarily restores the king to his rightful rule. In the Seyya Jātaka, J 282 (Ja ii 273-4), a king refuses to fight to protect his kingdom from invasion and is imprisoned by his conqueror. The king’s pity for the karmic outcome of his conqueror’s sins (he undoubtedly will be reborn in an unhappy place) is so strong that the conqueror is attacked by great physical pain. The conqueror then releases the captive king and returns his kingdom to him. It is probably significant that the vanquished king is none other than the venerated Buddha in a previous rebirth. The theme of the supernatural king is reinforced in the Cakkavatti-Sīhanāda Sutta, DN 26 (D iii 58-79). This sutta, more than any other, is regarded as the scriptural primer on kingship.10 In section 5, the long-lived righteous king Daḷhanemi passes on the duties of a righteous monarch: to honor the law, revere it, cherish it, do homage to it, venerate it, and acknowledge it as master. A righteous king should establish guard, ward, and protection for his household, troops, nobles and vassals, brahmins and householders, town and country folk, ascetics, beasts and birds; allow no crime to prevail and give property to those who are in need; and listen to the counsel of the ascetics (D iii 61). A king who rules in this fashion brings the entire world under his rule. In sections 6 and 7 (D iii 62-3), the king ventures out into the eastern country with his army and is welcomed as its ruler. The king does so also to his south, west, and north, pronouncing “Do not take life. Do not take what is not given. Do not commit sexual misconduct. Do not tell lies. Do not drink strong drink. Be moderate in eating” (trans. Walshe). In each instance the outcome is the same; the country voluntarily welcomes the King Daḷhanemi as its ruler, his having conquered not by sword, but by law. All of the above passages convey the proposition that absolute, perfect pacifism is rewarded with absolute peace, sometimes by supernatural means. But several inconsistencies in other parts of the Pali Canon undermine this examplar. The first inconsistency is in the Cakkavatti-Sīhanāda Sutta itself: the righteous king goes out with his army (sec. 6). This is no metaphor; the king is accompanied by footsoldiers, chariots, elephants, and cavalry (the fourfold army in ancient Indian statecraft). The sutta’s intent is to convey that the real emperor is law, not a human king, and that a king who righteously follows the law himself gains a multitude of followers and therefore does not need to conquer by force. But if that is the case, then why travel with an army at all? Schmithausen’s (1999: 55)

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interpretation of this sutta is that the utopian, ideal monarch need not actually use force to rule. Yet such rule is possible only after applying force to achieve the submission of his followers. Although such force may not necessarily have been deadly, it is force nevertheless—harm is threatened to procure submission to the king’s rule. Another inconsistency lies in the five powers outlined as the basis of kingship in the Tesakuṇa Jātaka, J 521 (J v 120-1). In ascending order, those five powers are strength, wealth, counsel, caste, and wisdom. They are open to some variation in interpretation; Gokhale (1966: 17)11 interprets the last one as “intelligence” although the PTS translation reads “wisdom,” and the first one as “strength of arms” whereas the PTS translation reads “strength of limb.” These are not trivial distinctions, for intelligence is hardly synonymous with wisdom and even the feeblest person properly situated can wield great military might. Gokhale would characterize a strong army as an important asset, whereas the PTS translation extols only personal physical strength. But in any case, and even granting that strength is only the fifth most important power rather than the first, why is strength (in either form) mentioned as an asset at all? Strength could only be an asset to kingship if the king intends to use it to enforce his will or ward off challenges. Yet the Pali Canon states elsewhere that a perfectly righteous king would have no enemies, no challengers, and even no crime, therefore he should need neither physical strength nor an army. A third inconsistency consists of several separate passages that, when taken together, suggest that political pacifism is actually impossible to implement, or at best impractical. The Cakkavatti-Sīhanāda Sutta extols the extreme virtues of the cakkavattin, the world-ruling monarch who rules with law (dhamma) rather than force. In The Book of the Twos, AN 2, chap. 6, secs. 1-4 (A i 76), the Buddha questions his monks on the two types of persons who are born happy, who are born extraordinary, who are mourned upon their deaths, and who are worthy of a shrine, respectively. In each instance, the answer is a Tathāgata (a Fully Enlightened person, i.e. the Buddha) and a cakkavattin. Essentially the Buddha is equating himself with a cakkavattin (Dissanayake, 1977: 94–5). That being the case, it seems likely that only the Buddha could ever actually be a cakkavattin—suggesting that the cakkavattin’s standard of morality and enlightenment is unachievable by any other person, for the Buddha is unique. Harris (2003: 105) documents a similar argument: that for a war to be truly “just,” its perpetrator must undertake it with absolute purity of right thought, i.e. absolutely free of greed and hatred—only a Buddha or arahant is capable of this. The Buddha himself appears to tacitly acknowledge the difficulty in ruling righteously without using force. In the Māra Suttas, SN 4, chap. 2, sec. 10 (S i 116), the Buddha contemplates whether it is possible to govern righteously without conquering, doing harm and sorrow, or causing the same. The evil demon Māra challenges the Buddha to govern in such a way himself; his plan is to distract the Buddha from his compassion for those suffering from the cruelty of misrule by getting him “absorbed in the fascination of exercising power” (PTS translation, note 1 to sec. 10). But the Buddha refuses even to attempt the

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challenge, saying “And were the mountain all of shimmering gold, not e’en twice reckoned would it be enough for one man’s wants” (Rhys Davids trans.). Even the Buddha himself apparently fears the temptations associated with that much power. If the Buddha is unsure that even he could rule according to his own ideal, then certainly no one else can. If the Buddha in his fully enlightened incarnation cannot meet the ideal standard of kingship, then he could not have done so in his previous births either. This is precisely the case in the Mūga-pakkha Jātaka, J 538 (Ja vi 1). In this story, Buddha tells of his previous life as Temiya, the only son of a king despite his having 16,000 wives. As an infant, Temiya is aware that he has been reborn after spending 80,000 years in hell to atone for the sins of mere 20 years of reign as a king in his previous life. Seeing his father go down the same path and being terribly afraid of returning to hell, he chooses to avoid exercising any function of kingship whatsoever, by feigning being crippled, deaf, and dumb. When as an adult his true abilities are discovered, he leaves the palace to become an ascetic. The king and his queens all renounce their rule in order to join him in his ascetic lifestyle, along with two other putatively conquering kings. All three kingdoms are abandoned, the elephants and horses left to roam wild, and the treasuries scattered. At first glance this story seems like a tale of an over-developed society reverting to a simpler, more idyllic existence. However, the result of everyone embracing the ideal of the ascetic life (as the Buddha recommends) is to destroy the community itself, along with any hope of societal progress. Furthermore, the Jataka omits any mention of the next kingdom that inevitably must have encountered the three abandoned ones, conquered them, and enslaved their populations. The pursuit of the ideal of total personal and political pacifism left no one behind to maintain the kingdoms and protect their people from harm. This is the third way in which the so-called ideal style of kingship illustrated in the Pali Canon is both impossible and impractical. The tension between the ideal of total pacifism and the practical necessity of force in statecraft is also evident in the Pali Canon’s inconsistent treatment of the problem of crime. In the Cakkavatti-Sīhanāda Sutta, society degenerates because the king fails in his duty to give property to the needy. In the Kūṭadanta Sutta, DN 5, secs. 10-12 (D i 134-6), King Mahāvijita’s country is beset by thieves and brigands ravaging and pillaging the countryside. His chaplain’s advice is not to respond with executions and banishments, but instead give riches to those who need it. The king follows his chaplain’s advice and crime diminishes and revenue grows. Thus the ideal crime prevention, according to the Pali Canon, is to eliminate the need to resort to crime by satisfying the people’s material needs. Indeed, the Bhikkā-Parampara Jātaka, J 496 (Ja iv 370), opens with a king finding his court of justice empty because he himself had renounced sin and held true to the ten royal virtues. The message throughout the Pali Canon is that a sinless king will have sinless subjects, and that the very need to punish his subject’s crimes is a reflection of the king’s own sinful life. However, other passages in the Pali Canon undermine the consistency of this message. In the Sumaṅgala Jātaka, J 420 (Ja iii 441-2), and the Somanassa

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Jātaka, J 505 (Ja iv 451), kings set the example of careful reflection before punishing, rather than acting upon their temporary emotions. Yet according to the ideal standard, the fact that those kings must punish at all means that they themselves have not lived up to the royal virtues despite their best efforts. Furthermore, I suggest that the solution to the crime wave in the Kūṭadanta Sutta above was possible only because the king had immense wealth to give in the first place. It seems highly unlikely, given the politics of ancient India, that his kingdom would not have acquired such massive wealth without having to apply force at some point against someone, either in extracting wealth from his own subjects or in conquering other kingdoms. It is clear from the Pali Canon that the Buddha prefers non-violence. Therefore, when confronted with the question of the morality of a king actually going to war, one would expect the Buddha to explicitly counsel against it, for doing so is sinful and will earn the king a rebirth in hell. However, when confronted with just such a situation in the Mahāparinibbāna Sutta, DN 16, secs. 1.1-1.6 (D ii 72-6), the Buddha offers no such counsel. In this sutta, King Ajātasattu of Magadha sends a minister to the Buddha with instructions to inform him that he intends to attack the Vajjians, saying “I will strike the Vajjians who are so powerful and strong, I will cut them off and destroy them, I will bring them to ruin and destruction!” (trans. Walshe). The minister is to report on the Buddha’s reaction to this information. The minister does as ordered, and the Buddha replies that as long as the Vajjians continue to live righteously, they “may be expected to prosper and not decline.” Now, the sutta does not elaborate on King Ajātasattu’s motive for attacking; it could be defense, retribution for a past wrong, preempting the rise of a hostile and belligerent power, or simply personal greed or hatred. But for the Buddha, whose ideal is absolute non-violence regardless of cause or justification, the king’s immediate motive should be irrelevant; he should have advised the minister that the king should not go to war. Yet he does not. Several attempts to explain away this problem do not satisfy. Nakamura’s (1974: 175) interpretation of the sutta is that the Buddha actually did counsel against war, albeit more subtly. Warring against the Vajjians would not achieve the king’s purpose, which is to destroy them; therefore, the argument goes, there is no point in the endeavor. But this interpretation is not convincing, for a far better deterrent than touting an unreasonable prospect of success should be the threat of 80,000 years of torment in hell. Pandita’s (2011: 138–9) interpretation is that the Buddha refrained from counseling against war because he did not want his Magadhan followers to be punished for opposing it and because he wanted to avoid conferring any advantage to either side. This explanation is also not convincing, for two reasons. First, if the Buddha is important enough for the king to solicit his reaction, then he must have sufficient influence to insulate his followers from harm. Second, deterring the king’s attack does not require the Buddha to reveal the relative strength of the Vajjians, nor would the Buddha invite the king to attack knowing that he would lose in battle. Schmithausen (1999: 50) offers the sutta as evidence that because the Buddha never specifically counsels against the war, he does not actually regard all war as immoral. Such an interpretation, if

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correct, would render a considerable portion of the Pali Canon—that which elevates political pacifism as the ideal statecraft—meaningless. Recall that the Mahākamma-vibhanga Sutta, MN 136 (M iii 207ff), holds that it actually might be possible to kill without punishment. At best, the Pali Canon sends a mixed message as to whether the king may use force or not; at worst, it extols an ideal that is impossible to achieve, therefore attempting to do so seems pointless. When actually confronted with the question, in a way that will have immediate, real-life consequences, the Buddha equivocates. These problems undermine the coherence of the ethic of non-violence in the Pali Canon, as well as its prospect for practical application. Why is the Pali Canon so confused on this subject? One reason might be its tendency to juxtapose the opposing ethical extremes of absolute pacifism and total depravity, while neglecting the vast range of middle ground between the two. For example, the Angulimāla Sutta, MN 86 (M ii 97ff), is the story of the conversion of a notorious murderer who takes such pleasure in killing that he wears his victims’ fingers around his neck as a garland. Upon conversion, he is enlightened and embraces total pacifism (going from one extreme to the opposite). The ethic of absolute pacifism is usually contrasted with a depraved lust for killing, e.g. the Cūḷkammavibhanga Sutta, MN 135, secs. 5-6 (M iii 203-4). Another example is the Kosala Saṃyutta, SN 3, chap. 2, secs. 4-5 (S i 82-4), in which the King Ajātasattu of Magadha is depicted as totally evil—“a friend to, an intimate of, mixed up with, whatever is evil” (trans. Rhys Davids). King Pasenadi of Kosala, in contrast, is “a friend to, an intimate of, mixed up with, whatever is good,” i.e. totally good.12 It is worth further noting that in the same passage, the “totally good” king uses force to defend his kingdom from attack. Then, having lost the first battle, he launches a new attack against his former victor. Both are significant departures from the pacifist ideal. Finally, recall the Raṭṭapāla Sutta, MN 82, secs. 41-2 (M ii 71-4), in which the remedy for the king’s craving for wealth and power is not moderation, but withdrawal from worldly matters entirely. In contrast to the placement of just war theory as a preferred intermediate between holy war and pacifism in Christianity, the scripture of Buddhism appears to tolerate the extremes of both pacifism and raison d’´etat, while offering no middle ground of its own. Indeed, Schmidt-Leukel (2004c: 39) even goes as far as to characterize Buddhist pacifism as “radical,” yet it seems to be competing with an equally radical strain of militarism. Some doubtful claims Buddhism may have acquired its present-day reputation as a pacifist religion due to three factors. The first is the historical narrative of the conversion of Mauryan Emperor Ashoka (A´soka), who about 265 BCE completed his dynasty’s conquest of the Indian subcontinent by conquering the Kalingas. Ashoka is said to have been quite wicked, motivated by nothing more than lust for conquest. But after being moved with remorse for the hundreds of thousands of deaths on his hands, Ashoka embraced Buddhism and propagated it throughout his empire.

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After his conversion, his new ethic of statecraft was one of non-violence and compassion, directed toward development, e.g. hospitals and universities; his reign was a golden age in the dynasty’s history. Many treatments of Buddhist statecraft cite the case of Ashoka as evidence of Buddhist pacifism. And in fairness, Ashoka’s post-conversion reign is documented in most histories as benign compared to others in his day (Kulke and Rothermund, 1986: 64–70, esp. 70). But several facets of the narrative suggest that Ashoka could never have been as purely pacifist as the Buddhist ideal demands. One is that Ashoka’s conversion conveniently took place after his conquest of the Indian subcontinent, beyond which expansion would have been impractical. Having conquered as much as he reasonably could—by force, not law—it was quite easy to then renounce any further territorial ambitions. Furthermore, Ashoka is not documented as having restored independence to his conquered lands, including Kalinga, or having repatriated the hundreds of thousands of displaced persons. In addition, Ashoka never renounced his regnum; he continued to maintain an army, enforce laws, and punish offenders. Despite the relatively enlightened style of rule that is (presumably rightly) attributed to him after his conversion, Ashoka could not have ruled in the style of the cakkavattin in Buddhist scripture. The second contributor to Buddhism’s contemporary reputation for pacifism is the rise in prominence of Walpola Rahula, a Sri Lankan monk regarded as the foremost scholar on Buddhism in the English-speaking world in his day. His bestknown work, What the Buddha Taught, advances the claim that Buddhism is entirely pacifist (Rahula, 1997: 86). However, his scriptural evidence is mostly limited to the ten royal virtues (mentioned above), and to the Dhammapada, an anthology of short verses uttered by the Buddha (analogous to a cross between the book of Proverbs and the Sermon on the Mount in the Christian Bible). Perhaps Rahula chose the verses he did because he believed that they would resonate best within his largely Christian audience, e.g. hatred can only be overcome by love (Dhp, v. 5), putting oneself in the other’s place (id. vv. 129-30), conquering anger with kindness and wickedness with goodness (id. v. 223). However, he ignores all the other scripture that is far more relevant to the morality of using force. The third factor is that several Buddhist pacifists have gained fame for winning the Nobel Peace Prize, including the Dalai Lama of Tibet and the Burmese opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi (Schmidt-Leukel, 2004c: 33–4). Although each of these figures refrained from advocating violence in furtherance of their political aspirations, that is hardly dispositive evidence that Buddhism is more pacifist than Christianity or Islam—both of which also have had pacifist political figures winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Furthermore, Buddhism has non-pacifist and even militant political figures as well, e.g. in Burma and in Rahula’s native Sri Lanka.13 Several scholars of the Theravada Buddhist war ethic have advanced the claim that a kind of Buddhist just war theory is rooted in Buddhist scripture. Schmithausen (1999: 47) uses the Angulimāla Sutta (presented above) and other suttas to suggest that Buddhism distinguishes between permissible and impermissible killing, though his cited suttas do not support such a claim. However,

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Schmithausen’s other major claim—that kings supported Buddhism as a code of ethics for their subjects but not for their own political activity (id.: 52–3)—would appear to have greater merit. Indeed, the conventional view of scholars of early Buddhism is that Buddhism took for granted the use of violence by the state (Jerryson and Juergensmeyer, 2010: 13). Keown’s (2005: 77–8) exploration of Buddhist ethics also takes for granted the state’s justification of using force within its own borders. But concerning using force outside the state’s borders, Buddhism offers little guidance on such questions as what precisely “pacifists” are opposed to, what distinguishes “violence” from the morally neutral “force,” and how to protect innocents from violent criminals. Keown himself offers no answers, instead only highlighting a tension between principle and practice (2005: 83). Xue (2005: 4) also argues that Theravada Buddhist scripture “endorses” (his word) the use of force in self-defense and defense of justice by the laity (though not by the monkhood). His claim is based on the Aggañña Sutta, DN 27 (D iii 80ff); however, that sutta reads more like a resignation to the inevitability of using force, not an endorsement of it. Jerryson chronicles his observations of “military monks” in southern Thailand, who arm themselves to defend the Buddhist community (the sangha) against a wave of Islamic terrorist attacks there. The monks’ justification is that the moral necessity of using force to defend the monastery, its occupants, and Thai Buddhism itself overshadows the moral gravity of murdering a terrorist (Jerryson, 2010: 189). Yet Jerryson also recounts a high-ranking monk’s dismay over the emergence of the military monks; to him, this development is antithetical to Buddhism (id.: 185–7). The ethnic conflict between Buddhist Sinhalas and Hindu Tamils in Sri Lanka has spawned a large body of literature on that country, including on the ethics of war and violence in Sri Lankan Buddhism specifically. Bartholomeusz (1999, 2002) spearheads the claim that a just war ethic has emerged in modern Sri Lankan Buddhism. She attempts to reconcile the strain of nationalism in Sinhala thought with the claim that although non-violence is the preferred ethic (or prima facie duty, citing Childress), a show of strength sometimes is necessary to deter attacks, and actual attacks must be warded off with strength (2002: 38–40). She thus argues that the editors of the Pali Canon did not condemn war per se, but only the “mental states that issue into violent behavior” (2002: 52). However, the scriptures that she cites do not support her claim that there is a Buddhist “just war” ethic. Bartholomeusz invokes the example of the two kings Ajātasattu and Pasenadi in the Kosala Saṃyutta (S i 82-4), already recounted above.14 For the purpose of this analysis, we shall assume that the first-defeated Pasenadi launched a counter-attack to Ajātasattu’s previous attack, rather than going into battle to defend his kingdom against a second attack by Ajātasattu (though scripture is not clear on this point). That being the case, the scripture does not state that Pasenadi counter-attacked because he had right on his side, only that he counter-attacked to avenge his prior defeat. Its point was not to morally justify the counter-attack, but to illustrate the consequences of a war of greed—that war begets war and murder begets more murder. In addition, Bartholomeusz refers to Gokhale’s citation of the same passage as support for her claim that a Buddhist

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king should possess a full treasury and a large army (2002: 42, citing Gokhale, 1966: 17). However, Gokhale was not making a moral prescription, only a statement of fact—his claim was not that a Buddhist king should possess those two things, but that those things were two widely held characteristics of a king in early Buddhist political theory. The centerpiece of Bartholomeusz’s claim of a defensive war ethic in Sri Lankan Buddhism is not even in the Pali Canon, but rather in the post-canonical Mahāvaṃsa (1912), a 5th-century CE Ceylonese text venerated as the Sri Lankan national epic. Early in the Mahāvaṃsa, the Buddha is depicted as having visited the island three times and entrusted it to the king of the gods (chap. 7, vv. 3-5); this is the foundation for the claim that Sri Lanka is a sacred island to Buddhism. The key scripture is in chapter 25, in which the Buddhist king Duṭṭagāmani slaughters all the Damiḷa people of the island (Bartholomeusz notes the parallel to the modern word Tamil), including the Damiḷa king Eḷara. At the end of the campaign, overwhelmed by remorse for having killed so many millions of people, Duṭṭagāmani is unable to celebrate his victory.15 The chapter continues: When the arahants of Piyaṅgudīpa knew his thought they sent eight arahants to comfort the king…. ‘We are sent by the brotherhood at Piyaṅgudīpa to comfort thee, O lord of men.’ And thereon the king said again to them: ‘How shall there be any comfort for me, O venerable sirs, since by me was caused the slaughter of a great host numbering millions?’ The arahants reply: From this deed arises no hindrance in thy way to heaven. Only one and a half human beings have been slain here by thee, O lord of men. The one had come unto the (three) refuges, the other had taken on himself the five precepts.16 Unbelievers and men of evil life were the rest, not more to be esteemed than beasts. But as for thee, thou wilt bring glory to the doctrine of the Buddha in manifold ways; therefore cast away care from thy heart, O ruler of men! (chap. 25, vv. 104-11) With this counsel, King Duṭṭagāmani was comforted. The Mahāvaṃsa resonates strongly with the Sinhala in modern Sri Lanka, including the Buddhist monks there. It is often employed as scriptural justification for violence against the Tamils, especially since the rise of the Tamil Tiger terrorists (Bartholomeusz, 2002: 32–8). It even has been invoked to justify the 1959 assassination of Prime Minister Bandaranaike as retribution for his reconciliatory policy toward the Tamils (Bartholomeusz, 2002: 77–88 passim). The popular sentiment is that the presence of such a large proportion of non-Buddhists on a sacred Buddhist island poses a threat to Sri Lankan Buddhism itself—not dissimilar to popular discontent in Saudi Arabia (where the two holiest sites of Islam are located) in the 1990s over the presence of non-Muslim troops there. Gombrich

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(2006) lends some political psychological support to this contention, arguing that Sri Lanka’s ethnic violence is generated by mutual fear of being a minority—the Tamils’ fear of living under Sinhala jurisdiction and the Sinhalas’ fear because 50 million more Tamils live across the 20-mile strait in India. In addition, Gombrich argues, the ethnic violence is a symptom of anger displacement (striking out at the most available target). These arguments underpin Gombrich’s claim that the cause of Sri Lanka’s ethnic violence is nationalism, not Buddhism (but also that Buddhists are no less likely to resort to violence than adherents of other religions). Furthermore, field research by Kent (2010: 164) reveals that some Sri Lankan soldiers and monks actually do believe that the positive karma from going to war and killing for the common good (“on behalf of the country, people, religion, region, and motherland”) outweighs the negative karma that would otherwise result. This sort of focus on the intention of the actor, as opposed to the objective act, is analogous to just war thinking. Such focus, however, also is analogous to holy war thinking, and indeed this is the one major fallacy most strongly refuting the arguments of Bartholomeusz and others. The war ethic being adopted in Sri Lanka is not of just war, but holy war. A war ethic that de-humanizes non-believers, such as that of the Mahāvaṃsa, cannot be a just war ethic because it confers a right to kill based on what the opponent is, not does—thus there is no just cause—and furthermore takes into no account the suffering, dignity, or rights of the opponent—thus there is no proportionality or just means. The scriptural basis for the war ethic in Sri Lankan Buddhism does not provide a foundation for just war theory in Theravada Buddhism.17 Several other dubious claims of a Buddhist just war tradition have appeared over the last few decades. In a piece on Buddhist law, Jayatilleke (a Sri Lankan) argues that Buddhism espouses both pacifism and just war (Jayatilleke, 1967: 550). His scriptural support is the first Rājovāda Jātaka, J 151 (Ja ii 3-4). In that vignette, two kings meet on a narrow road and one must give way to the other, setting up a question of precedence. Finding themselves exactly equal in power, prestige, etc., they examine each other’s policies. The first king meets force with force, mildness with mildness, good with good, and evil with evil (which Jayatilleke equates with the just war ethic). The second king conquers wrath with kindness, evil with good, greed with charity, and falsehood with truth (the pacifist ethic). Upon learning this, the first king voluntarily gives way to the second. The problem with Jayatilleke’s argument is that his claim of the existence of a legitimate just war tradition in Buddhism is not supported by the scripture he cites. The war ethic of the first king in the Rājovāda Jātaka is not presented as legitimate or just, but inferior. The other scripture that Jayatilleke cites, the Jātakamālā (Ārya´sūra, 2010), is not even part of the Pali Canon and furthermore does not support the moral legitimacy of using force. The first passage he cites, The Story of Mahābodhi (Kṣānti), Jātakamālā 23, sec. 68, states that a prince who disregards and fails to honor the valor of his military men “will be deserted by victory in battle.” This passage is a warning that a prince who slights the military will not earn its loyalty and therefore they will not fight to the best of their ability.

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This scripture is an admonishment to the prince to treat his people well—the peasants, taxpayers, tradesmen, religious persons, and the army; but it is not an endorsement of the moral legitimacy of using the military force. The second passage that he cites, The Story of Maitrībala (Dāna), Jātakamālā 8, sec. 14, also does not endorse the use of military force to maintain the kingdom’s strength, but instead the opposite: “On friendliness does his strength rest, not on his motleybannered army, which he keeps only to comply with custom…. He protects his land in the proper manner [i.e. by keeping the ten royal virtues]. Righteousness is the rule of his actions” (Ārya´sūra, 2010; emphasis added). Jayatilleke’s case that Buddhism recognizes a just war tradition is not persuasive. Gethin (2007: 10) attempts to reconcile war and Buddhist pacifism by adopting a theory of two modes of dhamma originally proposed by Collins (1998). In first mode, dhamma functions as a “practical moral framework for justice” in which violence may be permitted depending on the circumstances, but never when committed in haste or anger. The second mode is an absolute ethic. Gethin argues that the second ethic prevailed in early Buddhism and the first one emerged only in post-canonical sources (the greater tolerance of Mahayana scripture toward war, outlined later in this chapter, may be testament to this theory). The problem with such an approach is that the Pali Canon offers no guidance as to which mode will be applied—either by the laity or by the state—or when. Upon closer examination, these two modes of dhamma are fundamentally incompatible with each other, leaving the Buddhist layman—and king—no closer to reconciling the genuine needs of statecraft with the absolutist standard of behavior necessary to reach nirvana. It seems likely, therefore, that the Buddhist war ethic, incoherent as it is, exerted (and exerts today) little effect on the behavior of states (Schmithausen, 1999: 52).18 Empirical relationships with use of force The foregoing analysis of the war ethic in the core Buddhist scripture—the Pali Canon—suggests that there are two diametrically opposed Buddhist war ethics: one highly militant (permissive) and the other highly pacifist (restrictive). Theories that a middle-ground just war tradition ties together the two extremes do not appear to be supportable in or from the very scripture on which their proponents base their claims. The war ethics in Christianity and Islam, albeit diverse, each have a single core ethic—a “median” ethic—around which the preponderance of each religion’s respective adherents congregate (see Chapter 2). In contrast, Buddhism has no such median ethic; instead it has two diametrically opposed “modes.” In contrast to states’ leaders influenced by Christianity or Islam, states’ leaders seeking guidance from Buddhist thought in matters of war and peace seem likely to do one of two things. First, confronted with two opposing guidelines, leaders may simply not apply either and make their decisions based on other (secular) considerations. In such case, the Buddhist war ethic wields no influence. Second, leaders may simply select and apply one extreme war ethic or the other, based on

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what they were already predisposed to do. In such case, the two extreme war ethics are applied so randomly that over time they cancel each other out. Either way, Buddhist is hypothesized to have no empirical relationship to initiation of an interstate armed conflict. Table 6.1 reports regressions on Preferred Buddhist GRP using the same format and models as in the two previous chapters. In contrast to Christianity and Islam, Table 6.1 RELogit regression on Buddhist Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

Buddhist Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0333 (.0488)

.0039 (.0513)

.0504 (.0561)

.0291 (.0706)

2.0788 (.0089)***

.2565 (.0284)*** 2.8256 (.0216)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

.9111 (.1953)*** .2549 (.1455) 2.1779 (.0782)*

2.0309 (.0112)** 2.0949 (.0149)*** 2.0284 (.0084)** .1112 (.1511)

2.0450 (.0199)* 2.0111 (.0111) 2.1815 (.2931)

.0660 (.2927) .7316 (.2470)**

.2462 (.5713) .9656 (.3836)*

2.8476 (.2673)**

2.8854 (.6348) 2.0116 (.0582) 2.5331 (.0401)*** 1.1391 (.3655)***

.1992 (.0388)*** 2.8400 (.0314)***

25.0463 (.3309)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2116.30

.2055 (.0432)*** 2.5548 (.0284)*** 1.4986 (.2198)*** .2053 (.1995) .8566 (.1610)*** 1.4975 (.1978)*** .3687 (.1957) 2.2892 (.0195)*** 24.5085 (.4417)*** 1,014,361 25,040 4318.73

25.4102 (.4727)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1282.49

.5858 (.3157)*** 2.3026 (.0318)*** 23.6020 (.5788)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2268.43

.2326

.3237

.2109

.3090

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-Years [cubic splines omitted] Constant

.3768 (.1189)** .4794 (.0922)*** 2.0740 (.0501)

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

.6943 (.3126)* .9395 (.2375)*** 1.8757 (.2826)***

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

0

Pr (Y=1) .0005

.001

170

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Buddhist GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 6.1 RELogit regression on Buddhist Preferred GRP score.

both of which have some empirical relationship with first use of force, Buddhism has none. In all four models, the standard errors are such that the relationship could be positive or negative. This is noticeable also in Figure 6.1, which graphs Preferred Buddhist GRP against first use of force. The confidence intervals all are extremely wide. Because the foregoing analysis concentrated heavily on the Pali Canon, as Theravada Buddhism does, it is appropriate to report measurements of Theravada Buddhism specifically. Table 6.2 reports regressions on Preferred Theravada Buddhist GRP and Figure 6.2 graphs them. Like those for Buddhism overall, the coefficients for Theravada Buddhism all are positive but not statistically significant in any model.

The war ethic in Mahayana Buddhism Mahayana scripture Much but not all of the Pali Canon is incorporated into the Taisho Tripitaka. Like the Pali Canon, the Taisho Tripitaka professes political pacifism as the ideal ethic of statecraft. The Mahāsatyaka-nirgrantha-nirde´sasūtra, T. 9:332a-b, and Abhidharmako´sasastra, T. 12:12b, reproduce the ideal of the cakravartin (the Sanskrit word for the Pali cakkavattin), who renounces violence and weapons yet is the universal ruler to whom all countries surrender peacefully (Nakamura, 1974: 177–8). In the Buddhacarita, chap. 2, sec. 40, T. 17:515a, the father of the historical Buddha, King Suddhodana, is renowned for defeating his enemies by

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Table 6.2 RELogit regression on Thervada Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict) Theravada Preferred .0151 (.0590) GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of 2.0788 dyad (.0089)*** Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

.2565 (.0285)*** 2.8247 (.0213)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0135 (.0528)

.0615 (.0583)

.0709 (.0641)

.3812 (.1181)*** .4811 (.0902)*** .0739 (.0499)

.9331 (.1892)*** .2665 (.1412)* 2.1770 (.0776)*

2.0309 (.0113)** 2.0949 (.0149)*** 2.0284 (.0084)*** .1123 (.1510)

2.0450 (.0201)*

.0657 (.2933) .7259 (.2468)**

.2452 (.5808) .9390 (.3809)*

2.8471 (.2682)**

2.8807 (.6453)

2.0111 (.0110) 2.1772 (.2939)

2.0112 (.0584) 2.5300 (.0403)*** 1.1518 (.3665)**

.2007 (.0393)*** .8390 (.0313)***

25.0416 (.3318)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2153.18

.2053 (.0432)*** 2.5544 (.0282)*** 1.5007 (.2199)*** .2083 (.1993) .8624 (.1602)*** 1.5021 (.1972)*** .3592 (.1927) 2.2891 (.0195)*** 24.5150 (.4416)*** 1,014,361 25,040 4318.22

25.4311 (.4787)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1287.30

.5418 (.3047) 2.3020 (.0318)*** 23.6587 (.5931)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2274.50

.2325

.3238

.2110

.3093

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-Years [cubic splines omitted] Constant

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

.7134 (.3111)* .9781 (.2400)*** 1.9063 (.2827)***

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

good deeds rather than waging war against them (id.: 178). These sutras extol the ideal that a ruler need never use force, or even inflict punishment. Yet the Survarṇaprabhāsottama-sūtra [The Sūtra of Golden Light] (1970; also T. #663), a sutra especially used by the Manchu Dynasty in China, predicts supernatural disasters on kingdoms whose kings do not punish evil:

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

0

Pr (Y=1) .0002 .0004 .0006 .0008 .001

172

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Theravada GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 6.2 RELogit regression on Theravada Preferred GRP score.

For when a king overlooks an evil deed in his territory and does not inflict appropriate punishment on the evil person, … wicked acts and quarrels arise in great number in the realm…. His territory is smitten … and his realm is destroyed on the arrival of a foreign army … Unfavourable winds will blow; unfavourable showers of rain (will fall); unfavourable (will be) planets and asterisms, likewise moon and sun. Crop, flower, fruit, and seed will not ripen in due season. Famine will arise there where the king is neglectful. (1970: 61–2) The scripture is once again contradictory, sending confusing messages to practitioners of statecraft. Being a king (which also necessitates being born into a royal family) is supposedly a reward for meritorious conduct in one’s previous lives, thus a king should be closer to achieving nirvana than any other person in the kingdom. Yet the king is being demanded to violate the core precepts of Buddhism (especially that of non-violence) in discharging the official duties of his position—and in doing so, undo his progress toward heaven, perhaps even earning rebirth in hell instead. In justification of war, Mahayana scripture is somewhat less incoherent than the Pali Canon. A genuine war ethic is identifiable in it. A particularly good summary is the Mahāsatyaka-nirgrantha-putra-vyākarana-sūtra, T. 9:317-65 (T. #272), which ironically is a sermon not of the Buddha, but of Nirgrantha, the founder of Jainism.19 In it, the king is advised to observe the ideal precept of non-killing, to the point of even disarming (Xue, 2005: 5; Nakamura, 1974: 180–1). However, if his country is invaded anyway despite this policy, then the king’s duty is to

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protect his country and repulse the invaders. If this can be accomplished by peaceful negotiation, arbitration, or even bluffing, then such responses of action are preferred. If those responses are not successful, then the king may fight, but only with restraint and must kill as few people as possible (one of the few passages in which an ethic of just war is visible). But interestingly, the king must capitulate rather than fight an evenly matched opponent, for doing so would be so destructive to both sides that victory would be pyrrhic.20 This provision invites one side to take advantage of the other’s morality, and as such undermines this sutra’s ability to wield practical influence. Several other passages in the Taisho articulate a duty not to attack other countries. The Mahāyana-samnipāta ksitigarbha-da´sacakra-sūtra, T. 13:733a, states that a king should not invade other countries (Nakamura, 1974: 177); the Brahmajāla-sūtra, T. 24:1005c, forbids using an army “to make profits” (id.). The Larger Gaṇḍavyūha, T. 10:713a, extols the goal of “bringing forth beatitude and wealth through the concord of all countries” (id.). Of these three sutras, only the first professes a duty actually to defend the kingdom when attacked. That specific duty also is stated in the Saddhamasmṛtyu pasthāna-sūtra, T. 17:32a (Nakamura, 1974: 178). As to the duty to exercise restraint, the Larger Gaṇḍavyūha implies such a duty in professing that the purpose of conquering the enemy is for the king’s own people to live free from fear (Nakamura, 1974: 178), suggesting constraints of necessity and proportionality. In addition, the Mahayana version of the Mahāparinirvāṇa-sūtra, T. 12:384b8-11, prescribes that although the Buddhist laity should use weapons to defend monks, they should not actually kill anyone. However, another passage, at T. 12:460b15-21, states that killing those who discard the Mahayana and promulgate unwholesome doctrines is a less grave offense than killing an animal (Schmithausen, 1999: 58)—recall a similar sentiment expressed in the Sri Lankan epic, the Mahāvaṃsa. The same sutra, at T. 3: 383b-384a, declares that there is no reason to observe the five precepts (the first of which is not to kill) if the real law (i.e. Buddhism) were in need of protection. It goes on even to denounce any observers of the precepts who fail to protect Buddhism as not true Buddhists. The sutra further claims, at T. 16 459a-460b, that the Buddha himself put heretic brahmins to death in a previous life, partly to defend Buddhism, and partly out of pity to help brahmins escape their otherwise just punishment for slandering Buddhism (Demi´eville, 2010: 41).21 Scriptures such as these eviscerate the duty of restraint and are in fact expressions of the ethic of holy war, not just war. Cases of Mahayana Militarism Several scholars have documented the development of militaristic war ethics by the Buddhist monkhood in Japan, China, and elsewhere. I preface this section by acknowledging that the following evidence does not support a contention that all of the Buddhist monkhood in these respective countries are militant all the time. However, the existence of enough such instances in recent history, alongside the

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communities of proponents of Buddhist pacifism, serves to further undermine the consistency and coherency of the Buddhist war ethic. One body of scholarship in this area takes up the relationship between Zen Buddhism and Japanese militarism before and during World War II. King (1993) chronicles the emergence of “warrior Zen,” a form of Zen practice specially tailored to bushidō (the code of ethics of the samurai), which elevated selfless acceptance of death but also fighting skills. Zen Buddhism’s contributions to Japanese militarism were twofold: (1) instill a personal ethic of selflessness, and (2) break down the psychological barrier between life and death. The second one is particularly important, for removing the distinction between life and death opens the door to a number of sophistic arguments, as documented by Victoria. One example is the argument that the Buddhist prohibition against killing is a flawed, superficial ethic based on a limited understanding of the relationship between life and death. It is not the soldier but the sword that performs the act of killing; the soldier has no desire to do harm, but the enemy makes himself a victim by the act of appearing (Victoria, 2006: 110, quoting D.T. Suzuki). The sword gives life by killing: “[i]t is the precept forbidding killing that wields the sword” (2006: 36, quoting Sawaki Kōdō). And further: [O]f course one should kill, killing as many as possible. One should, fighting hard, kill everyone in the enemy army. The reason for this is that in order to carry compassion and filial obedience through to perfection it is necessary to assist good and punish evil. However, in killing one should swallow one’s tears, bearing in mind the truth of killing yet not killing. (Victoria, 2003: 72, quoting Yasutani Kaku’un; emphasis added) Victoria documents a consistently militaristic Buddhist institution in Japan between the Meiji Restoration and the end of World War II (1868–1945). However, the rise of this highly permissive ethic of violence predated the Meiji Restoration by six centuries, beginning with a sect founded by Nichiren in the 13th century CE (Demi´eville, 2010: 36–41). Victoria (2006: 152–7) goes on to argue that Japanese Buddhism has been slow to change its militaristic ideology, with only a few sects having acknowledged Japan’s responsibility for precipitating World War II in the Pacific. Xue (2005) documents similar developments in China, though the war ethic in Chinese Buddhism was less militant than in Japan’s. Xue shows that during the war with Japan (1937–1945), Chinese monks abandoned the Buddhist precept of pacifism and embraced war. He claims that the Chinese monkhood actually embraced nationalism (a form of holy war)—though the evidence presented in his book does not convincingly support that claim, in my opinion.22 Although most of the monkhood’s participation in the war involved medical service, many monks exchanged their robes for uniforms, assisted in the procurement of aircraft, and participated in guerilla warfare (Xue, 2005: chap. 4). Given that China was defending itself against an attack, it is not clear that Buddhist monks had adopted a nationalist stance, as opposed to merely a defensive one. Xue’s essential claim,

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which is supportable by his evidence, is that Chinese monks knowingly violated their ethical codes to participate in the war effort; their national loyalties prevailed over their religious ones.23 This phenomenon took place a second time in China with respect to the Korean War (1950–1953); in this instance, Xue’s evidence better supports his claim that the Chinese Buddhist war ethic turned nationalist. The new Communist regime viewed the American troops in Korea, as well as its military presence in the Taiwan strait (to deter the People’s Republic from invading Taiwan) as a direct threat to China, despite the fact that the United States never made any moves toward committing an armed attack on China. Under the influence of the Communist regime, the Chinese Buddhist leadership labeled the United States the “deadly enemy of peace” and called upon the Buddhist community to assist in the Korean War, to “safeguard not only the nation and the world, but also Buddhism” (Xue, 2010: 137–9). Buddhist monks joined the armed forces (id. 149–50) and presumably fought in Korea. What is interesting about this case is that the state was influencing the Buddhist community, not the reverse. Such is the case throughout most of Chinese history—the Buddhist “church” submitting to state control (Demi´eville, 2010: 30). That is not the phenomenon examined in this work; here we seek to determine the extent to which Buddhism influences the state’s preferences, decisions, and actions. Empirical relationship with first use of force The foregoing suggests that Mahayana Buddhism may be less pacifist than Theravada or Buddhism overall; however, sufficient inconsistencies remain to undermine any prediction that Mahayana Buddhism’s coefficients will be positive and significant. Instead, the opposite is true. Table 6.3 reports regressions on Preferred Mahayana Buddhist GRP and Figure 6.3 graphs them. As with Buddhism overall, none of the IV’s coefficients are statistically significant in any model, indicating that there is no empirical relationship between Mahayana Buddhism and first use of force by states (although, curiously, its coefficients in three of the four models are negative, not positive).

The “Buddhist Complex” In this chapter’s introduction, I put forth the argument that in several countries, Buddhism is so well intermingled with three other religions—Confucianism and Taoism in China and Korea, and Shintoism in Japan—that it is not easily separated from them. Many diverse sects of Mahayana Buddhism have emerged in China, Korea, Japan, and Vietnam, each flavored by the background of other, preexisting religious and philosophical traditions. In turn, Buddhism has influenced those pre-existing traditions as well (Kitagawa, 1990: 154; McGreal, 1995 passim; Zaehner, 1997: 293–373).24 In China, traditional society and the “Chinese Religious Complex” often is characterized as a syncretic of Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism (Nyitray, 2006). It is also notable that the Oxford volume on

176

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

Table 6.3 RELogit regression on Mahayana Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad. Model 1A (initiate any armed conflict) Mahayana Preferred .0689 (.0810) GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of 2.0789 dyad (.0089)*** Polity score State 1 Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 Closest contiguity score (15land) American dyad?

.2540 (.0291)*** 2.8268 (.0216)***

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

Model 2A (initiate fatal armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

2.0671 (.0936)

2.0333 (.1209)

2.1798 (.1406)

.3615 (.1217)** .4872 (.0910)*** 2.0733 (.0500)

.8518 (.1935)*** .2793 (.1453) 2.1731 (.0778)*

2.0311 (.0112)** 2.0949 (.0148)*** 2.0274 (.0083)*** .1086 (.1519)

2.0455 (.0200)*

.0762 (.2908) .7390 (.2446)**

.2787 (.5523) .9770 (.3821)*

2.8515 (.2647)*** .2099 (.0441)*** .5518 (.0281)***

2.8927 (.6154) .1994 (.0392)*** 2.8374 (.0315)***

2.0087 (.0111) 2.1989 (.2935)

.0004 (.0605) 2.5261 (.0396)*** 1.1226 (.3636)**

25.0096 (.3411)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2046.01

1.4922 (.2187)*** .1965 (.1991) .8623 (.1617)*** 1.4980 (.1986)*** .4078 (.2022)* 2.2900 (.0195)*** 24.5645 (.4490)*** 1,014,361 25,040 4291.57

25.3997 (.4759)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1269.62

.7005 (.2898)* 2.3047 (.0317)*** 23.7350 (.5948)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2197.28

.2326

.3239

.2107

.3096

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad? Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-Years [cubic splines omitted] Constant

Model 1B (initiate any armed conflict)

.6658 (.3099)* .9422 (.2298)*** 1.8648 (.2760)***

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

global religions (Juergensmeyer, 2006) groups the three religions together. In Japan, Buddhism and Shintoism are so closely intertwined with other (mostly East Asian) religions that they also form a “single religious complex,” i.e. the Japanese Religious Complex (Kisala, 2009: 89). Confucianist philosophy historically has been influential outside China, e.g. as the official theology of Japan’s

177

-.0005

0

Pr (Y=1) .0005 .001 .0015 .002

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

0

1

2

3

4 5 6 Mahayana GRP Score

7

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 6.3 RELogit regression on Mahayana Preferred GRP score.

Tokugawa shogunate (Kitagawa, 1990: 153) and Korea’s Choson dynasty (Lancaster, 2006). It stands to reason that Confucianist thought has been infused into Buddhism in these countries. Because the cross-fusion between Buddhism—especially Mahayana Buddhism—and the other three complicate the empirical testing of Buddhism, a further test is offered in an abundance of caution: the “Buddhist Complex,” consisting of Buddhism (all denominations), Confucianism, Taoism, and Shintoism combined—whichever of the four religions’ GRP scores is highest is the one upon which the dependent variable is regressed.25 Table 6.4 reports regressions on Preferred Buddhist Complex GRP scores and Figure 6.4 graphs the same models. Once again, none of the Buddhist Complex coefficients are significant in any model.

Conclusion This chapter examined effects of Buddhism on states’ propensities to initiate interstate armed conflicts and found no empirical relationships. This is the result that Schmithausen (1999) would have predicted, along with others like him who maintain that the Buddhist war ethic has exerted no influence on states’ leaders. However, these findings, which are not necessarily as conclusive as those on effects of Christianity and Islam, raise two questions. One question is whether Buddhism’s effects are even measurable. A challenge to the empirical testing is the paucity of Buddhist state-years relative to the numerous and diverse

178

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

Table 6.4 RELogit regression on Buddhist Complex Preferred GRP score, clustered by directed dyad.

Buddhist Complex Preferred GRP (0–10) Log CINC State 1 Log CINC State 2 Log directed CINC ratio Low polity score of dyad Polity score State 1

Model 2A Model 1B Model 1A (initiate fatal (initiate any (initiate any armed conflict) armed conflict) armed conflict)

Model 2B (initiate fatal armed conflict)

.0447 (.0481)

.0380 (.0687)

2.0787 (.0089)***

2.0307 (.0112)** 2.0287 (.0084)*** .1113 (.1510) .0660 (.2939) .7313 (.2459)**

25.0511 (.3304)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2107.25

2.8457 (.2688)** .2047 (.0431)*** 2.5549 (.0283)*** 1.5018 (.2199)*** .0299 (.1992) .8628 (.1611)*** 1.5026 (.1980)*** .3458 (.1933) 2.2889 (.0195)*** 24.5081 (.4411)*** 1,014,361 25,040 4323.24

.2327

.3238

European dyad? African dyad? Middle East dyad?

Observations Clusters Wald Chi-squared (4,21)a Pseudo-R-squareda

.0581 (.0560)

.3853 (.1179)*** .4793 (.0920)*** 2.0743 (.0501)

Defense pact (2→1)? Entente (2→1)? Neutrality pact (1→2)? Nonaggression pact (1→2)? Log GDP State 1 .2567 (.0284)*** Closest contiguity 2.8257 score (15land) (.0215)*** American dyad?

Asia-Pacific dyad? Peace-Years [cubic splines omitted] Constant

.0196 (.0501)

.9143 (.1918)*** .2551 (.1451) 2.1782 (.0781)* 2.0948 (.0148)***

2.0448 (.0199)* 2.0113 (.0111) 2.1834 (.2925) .2490 (.5743) .9710 (.3869)* 2.8839 (.6359)

.1994 (.0388)*** 2.8399 (.0313)***

2.0113 (.0584) 2.5329 (.0401)*** 1.1396 (.3655)**

25.4145 (.4723)*** 1,014,361 25,040 1278.77

.6955 (.3112)* .9436 (.2368)*** 1.8784 (.2815)*** .5754 (.3087) 2.3024 (.0318)*** 23.6091 (.5816)*** 1,014,361 25,040 2268.44

.2110

.3090

*p,.05; **p,.01; ***p,.001. a Diagnostics via logit command.

state-years for Christianity and Islam. Another challenge is disaggregating Buddhism from Asia-Pacific regional effects; the empirical results seem likely to be exposed to this criticism despite controlling for the region. This was not a significant problem for Christianity and Islam because states of those religions are far more diverse geographically.

179

0

Pr (Y=1) .0005 .001

.0015

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

0

1

2

3 4 5 6 7 Buddhist Complex GRP Score

8

9

10

95% Confidence Interval Model 1A

Model 1B

Model 2A

Model 2B

Figure 6.4 RELogit regression on Buddhist Complex Preferred GRP score.

Assuming the research design is sound enough to produce valid empirical results despite these challenges, the second question is why no effect of Buddhism was found. I have argued that although core Buddhist scripture maintains an ideal ethic of absolute non-violence, that ideal is impossible to put into practice. Furthermore, both the Theravada and Mahayana canons—especially the Pali Canon—are sufficiently self-contradictory to render the Buddhist war ethic inconsistent or even incoherent. Thus, not only may governments of Buddhist states not wish to put the Buddhist war ethic into practice, but also they may not be able to do so. Although some Christian and Muslim scripture passages conflict with their respective core war ethics, the level of inconsistency is not enough to undermine their overall coherency, whereas it is for Buddhism.

Notes 1 Indeed, in Japanese censuses, respondents often identify as both Buddhist and Shintoist. 2 The conventional format is the abbreviation of the division of the individual collection (provided in Appendix B), followed by the volume number of the original PTS translation in lower case Roman numerals, then the page number. For example, section 1 of the Mahāparinibbāna Sutta (sutta 16 of the Dīgha Nikāya) is in volume 2, page 72 of the original PTS translation, and is therefore cited as D ii 72. 3 For example, the Ekottara Āgama in the Mahayana branch, compared to the Aṅguttara Nikāya in the Theravada branch. 4 My own citations to the Taisho must necessarily originate from secondary sources, and their citations are not formatted consistently. The most commonly used format is

180

5

6

7

8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15

16

17

18

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism the volume number in Arabic numerals, followed by page and line numbers. For example, T. 12:484a8 would mean Taisho, volume 12, page 484, line a8. Occasionally authors cite only the sutra number; e.g. T. 374 means sutra 374 of the Taisho. I shall attempt to avoid confusion by citing to specific volumes and pages/lines using the format T. 12:484a8, and to specific sutras using the format T. #374. Dissanayake (1977: 43) links the cited passage with others to argue that property is the root of all conflict. However, the Pali Canon’s plain language indicates that property is only an instrument of sensual gratification, not a sensual pleasure in and of itself. Zimmermann (2006: 217) claims that society degenerates because the king initially fails to punish thievery. However, in the Pali Canon, the thievery is induced by the poverty resulting from the king’s failure to distribute property. The prohibition from killing even the smallest living things is also prominent in the Vinaya Piṭaka, which is the section of the Pali Canon detailing the monastic rules of conduct (see Schmithausen, 1999: 47). This entire restatement of Buddhist political theory is a paraphrasing of Gokhale. Another Jātaka with the same name is located at J 151. The Cakkavatti-Sīhanāda Sutta is reproduced in Mahayana scripture as well, at T. 1: 39b4. Gokhale interprets the powers as strength of arms, strength of wealth, strength of ministers, prestige of high birth, and strength of intellect. The Thanissaro translation online at https://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/sn/ index.html#sn3 (accessed June 9, 2019), which has this passage at sections 14-15, reads, “King Ajatasattu has evil friends, evil comrades, evil companions, whereas King Pasenadi has fine friends, fine comrades, fine companions.” Tambiah (1992 passim) and Grant (2009: 81–91) both document Rahula’s role in politicizing a militant form of Buddhism in Sri Lanka. Harris (2003: 99–100) makes a similar argument. Obeyesekere (1992) argues that Duṭṭagāmani is remorseful not for slaughtering the Damiḷas, but only for killing King Eḷara, who is described in many other accounts as a just king, and who Obeyesekere claims was an old man while Duṭṭagāmani was in his prime—thus the victory was not honorable because their combat was not evenly matched. However, the historical narrative upon which the Sinhala war ethic is based is derived from the actual text of the Mahāvaṃsa, the plain meaning of which does not support Obeyesekere’s claim. The three refuges are the Buddha, the dhamma, and the sangha, i.e. the Buddha, the moral law, and the Buddhist community. The five precepts are the abstention from killing, theft, adultery, lying, and drinking intoxicating liquors. On the contrary, Tambiah (1992), Deegalle (2003), Premasiri (2006), and Obeyesekere (1992, 2006) all argue that the Sri Lankan ethic is a gross aberration from the mainstream war ethic in Buddhism. Had the Pali Canon not contained so many inconsistencies casting doubt on the coherence of the pacifist ethic, their arguments would be persuasive. In 1970, Smith argued that because Buddhism is an ahistorical religion (cf. Christianity and Islam), its religionists have comparatively little bargaining power in their states (Smith, 1970, cited in Laitin, 1978: 575–6). Theoretically this also could be a factor in Buddhism’s non-effect on outcomes of interstate war and peace. However, the subsequent rise of political Buddhism in Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia (see Jerryson and Juergensmeyer, 2010) suggest that Smith’s conclusion may have been a better reflection of his own time (the late 1960s) than of Buddhism’s macrohistorical situation.

The bi-modal war ethic in Buddhism

181

19 Another particularly thorough scripture, the Bodhisattva-gocaropāya-viṣaya-virkurvaṇa-nirde´sa-sūtra [BGVVNS], has been explored in some detail by Zimmermann (2000, 2006) and Jenkins (2010), and recently translated by Jamspal (Range of the Bodhisattva, 2011). According to Zimmermann, it is reproduced in the Taisho, at T. 329b10-338c25 (the volume number is not stated). However, the BGVVNS is primarily a work of Indian and Tibetan Buddhism and is not well known in East Asia despite its appearance in the Taisho, therefore it will not be treated further. 20 These prescriptions are also contained at T. 50:340b (Deegalle, 2009: 67–8). 21 In another early Mahayana text, the Upāyakau´salya Sūtra, which does not appear to be part of the Taisho, a bodhisattva kills a man in order to prevent him from killing 500 others, even though he himself will suffer in hell for doing so, out of compassion for the lives of the would-be victims, and for the would-be killer (sparing him the suffering that the bodhisattva expects to undergo). However, in the sutra, the bodhisattva is not subjected to hell for this act of compassion (Gethin, 2007: 70). 22 Jessup (2008), in his review of Xue’s book, also arrives at this conclusion. 23 The emergence of a defensive war ethic in Chinese Buddhism was not instantaneous. A revolutionary streak among the monkhood had been brewing since the Taiping Rebellion (1850–1864), during which time many Buddhist temples were destroyed and monks and nuns massacred. In the early 20th century, a combination of antireligious and Christian-inspired movements (so claims Xue) nearly destroyed Buddhism entirely in southern China (Xue, 2005: 21). The Japanese invasion may have provided the additional heat necessary to boil over the long-simmering Buddhist anger. 24 Furthermore, many great thinkers in East Asia and India were versed in more than one religion (McGreal, 1995). 25 The Chinese Folk religion is practiced outside the institutional forms of the other religions in the Buddhist Complex and therefore is omitted from it (Jochim, 2006: 125).

7

Conclusion

I submit that the two hypotheses presented in Chapter 2 both are supported. First, religion does influence the preferences and decisions of states to initiate interstate armed conflicts. Empirical tests in Chapters 3 through 5 revealed correlations for both Christianity and Islam—both demographics and Government Religious Preference (GRP). Table 3.5 further showed that the stronger the regime preference for any religion, the greater the state’s propensity to initiate an interstate armed conflict (in three of the four models). But beyond the general finding that more religious states are statistically more likely to use force, it cannot be maintained that the effect of religion is uniform. Empirical results also support my second hypothesis, that different religions influence states’ preferences and decisions differently. Christianity, with its restrictive war ethic, is negatively correlated with the measured outcome (Chapter 4), and Islam, with its permissive war ethic, is positively correlated (Chapter 5). No such correlation is measured for Buddhism’s bi-modal war ethic (Chapter 6), in which I speculate that the opposing permissive and restrictive strains cancel each other out. Having drawn the conclusions just stated, I would like to reiterate a few of their limitations. I make no claim that the war ethic of any religion remains constant over time. It is certainly possible, even probable, that the war ethics of the three religions to which I have devoted chapters—and Christianity in particular—are more restrictive today than they were, say, 500 years ago, and the same is true for 1000 years ago and beyond. But having limited my claims to the religious war ethics influencing states today, I still maintain that those ethics are rooted in scripture, the priesthood (especially classic priestly writings), and the historical narrative. My caveat might then lead the reader to wonder how it is possible for me not to claim that religious war ethics have remained constant, given the longevity of scripture, priestly writings, and history. The answer is that all those sources must still be interpreted by individuals and cultures living in the here and now, and different scripture, writings, and history may be emphasized at different times. For this reason, I have also examined more contemporary treatments of religious war ethics, in order to discern which sources are being emphasized today and how they are being interpreted.

Conclusion

183

In addition, I make no claim that religion’s effect today is as strong and robust as that of religion even 200 years ago. An implicit assumption in this work has been that the behavior of states is influenced by secular norms as well as religious. The body of international law regulating resort to force by states, jus ad bellum, is just such a secular norm, and Henkin’s insight that “[i]t is probably the case that almost all nations observe almost all principles of international law and almost all of their obligations almost all of the time” (1979: 47, italics removed) seems intuitively correct. If states generally comply with jus ad bellum, and jus ad bellum were highly permissive (as it was in the 19th century), then we could expect states to use military force more often than during a period in which jus ad bellum is highly restrictive (as it is today). This phenomenon may affect states of all religions, i.e. if Christian states were more aggressive during that period, so also may Muslim and Buddhist have been. Unfortunately, this phenomenon currently is not testable due to the data limitations described in Chapter 1. I also anticipate some criticism originating from the most heavily invested stakeholders of the systemic paradigms of international relations. Neorealists and Neoliberals (and even to some extent Neoclassical Realists) are committed to the proposition that international outcomes are generated (primarily) by the pressures, incentives, and constraints of the structure, rather than individual characteristics of states and certainly not differences in the ideological preferences of states. The realist logic certainly is powerful and compelling and would likely explain even more IR outcomes in a world in which norms did not matter. Based on the empirical results of this study, however, I claim that outcomes are influenced by norms, alongside the materialist factors that typically are studied in the rationalchoice sector. However much Waltz’s (1979) and Keohane’s (1984) seminal works have advanced our knowledge of IR (and they are rightly celebrated for their considerable advancements), it is unfortunate that those works neglected the role of norms—therefore also of religion—so readily. I submit that the field needs to progress a little more, for it has been too slow to acknowledge (or perhaps, re-acknowledge) the role of ideologies in generating outcomes. Over the last few decades the field has uncovered and studied a variety of characteristics of states that are believed to generate international outcomes: power, regime type, alliances, wealth, trade dependence, the peace-learning process, and proximity—and even if their actual effects are contested, the utility of examining those characteristics does not appear to be widely disputed (and I do not dispute it either). It would behoove the field, however, to devote more attention to the role of ideology, including religious ideology. This work could be situated within a presently far-too-sparse body of literature that examines effects of ideology on state practice (e.g. Haas, 2007, 2012; Owen, 1997, 2010). One of the major challenges for the constructivist approach to IR, in which ideas are given a prominent place in the problematique, seems to have been how to empirically operationalize and measure an idea. I therefore offer this volume’s research design as a model for measuring not only religious ideologies, but secular ideologies as well.

184

Conclusion

The field needs to progress in another way: acceptance of the possibility that the ancient classics of Western culture were right all along about the positive effects of Christianity (assuming lack of interstate armed conflict to be a positive outcome). The difficulties that scholars encounter today in publishing findings that depict Christianity in a positive light (e.g. Woodberry, 2012) are particularly dismaying when compared to the ease with which excoriations of Christianity and defenses of Islam are published today (e.g. Steffen, 2017; Lawrence, 2017; see also de Soysa and Nord˚as, 2007). I personally have witnessed editors of prominent journals proudly professing their uncritical hostilities to religion (“Religion has much to answer for!”); peer reviewers whose reviews were fully accommodated suddenly finding new things wrong with a manuscript (“On deeper reflection, it seems that the real story here actually is…”); and an atheist panel chair openly admitting being angry at a panelist’s empirical finding that something positive may have emanated from any religion, let alone the politicallycorrect whipping boy that is Christianity. I myself have paid a heavy price to my own career advancement for revealing findings such as those contained in this volume. But as I noted in Chapter 1, to do otherwise would be to prioritize “political” over “science” and if the discipline continues down the path just described, it will cease to be a producer of knowledge but instead descend to producing little more than propaganda. Let me conclude with a final thought, in response to the potential objection that I have overstated the power of religion or otherwise inappropriately treated religions as monolithic. They are not—if they were, then their effects would overshadow those of the control variables. No war takes place unless someone in a leadership position on one side or the other chooses to precipitate it. States and their leaders are bombarded with a variety of stimuli, but I maintain that decisions of statecraft ultimately are the product of human agency. Decisions of states may be affected by the configuration of balls on the proverbial global billiard table, but they are not preordained by it. Neither are states’ decisions simply the predictable output of the human physiological or psychological programming that generates human responses, preferences, and behavior. The militant tendencies of some war ethics and impossibly pacifist ideals of others, the uncompromising ethics of justice and equally uncompromising ethics of grace, all may be transcended by human choice. But at the same time, choices of such magnitude as war and peace are made in accordance with the actor’s morality (or sometimes lack of it; see Stoessinger, 2010; Rummel, 1994, 1997). Religion provides the foundation for that morality, and ultimately that is the influence of religion on armed conflict onset.

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Appendix A

Preferred GRPs of states

Table A.1 State-years with Christian Preferred GRPs. State

Christian

Western Christian

Catholic

Albania Albania Andorra Angola Antigua and Barbuda Argentina Armenia Australia Austria Bahamas Bangladesh Barbados Belarus Belgium Belize Benin Benin Bolivia Bosnia and Herzegovina Botswana Brazil Bulgaria Burkina Faso Burundi Cameroon Canada Cape Verde Central African Republic

1946–1966 1990–2010 1946–2010 1990–2010 1981–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1973–2010 1971–2010 1966–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1981–2010 1960–1973 1989–2010 1946–2010 1995–2010

1946–1966 1990–2010 1946–2010 1990–2010 1981–2010 1946–2010

1946–1966 1990–2010 1946–2010 1990–2010 1946–2010

1946–2010 1946–2010 1973–2010 1971–2010 1966–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1981–2010 1960–1973 1989–2010 1946–2010 1995–2010

1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1973–2010 1971–2010 1971–2010 1966–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1981–2010 1960–1973 1989–2010 1946–2010 1995–2010

1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1962–2010 1960–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1960–2010

Extended Protestant

Orthodox 1946–1966 1990–2010

1981–2010 1991–2010

1991–2010

1995–2010

1966–2010 1966–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1962–2010 1960–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1960–2010

1960–2010 1962–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1960–2010 (Continued)

212

Preferred GRPs of states

Table A.1 State-years with Christian Preferred GRPs. (Continued) State

Christian

Western Christian

Catholic

Chad Chile Colombia Congo, Republic of

1960–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–1969 1992–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1992–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1993–2010 1946–1992 1960–1970

1960–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–1969 1992–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1992–2010 1946–2010

1960–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–1969 1992–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1992–2010 1946–2010

1993–2010 1993–2010 1993–2010 1946–1992 1946–1992 1946–1992 1960–1970 1960–1970

1971

1971

Costa Rica Cote d’Ivoire Croatia Cuba Cyprus Czech Republic Czechoslovakia Democratic Republic of Congo Democratic Republic of Congo Democratic Republic of Congo Denmark Djibouti Dominica Dominican Republic East Timor Ecuador Egypt El Salvador Equatorial Guinea Eritrea Estonia Ethiopia Ethiopia Fiji Finland France Gabon Gambia Georgia German Democratic Republic (East) German Federal Republic (West) Germany (unified)

Extended Protestant

Orthodox

1960–2010

1971

1971

1978–2010 1978–2010 1978–2010 1978–2010 1946–2010 1977–2004 1978–2010 1946–2010 2002–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1968–2010 1993–2010 1991–2010 1946–1976 1991–2010 1970–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1965–2010 1991–2010 1946–1989

1946–2010 1977–2004 1978–2010 1946–2010 2002–2010 1946–2010

1946–2010 1977–2004 1977–2004 1978–2010 1946–2010 2002–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010

1946–2010 1946–2010 1968–2010 1968–2010 1993–2010 1993–2010 1993–2010 1991–2010 1991–2010

1993–2010 1946–1976 1991–2010

1970–2010 1970–2010 1970–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1965–2010 1965–2010 1991–2010 1946–1989

1946–1989

1946–1989 1946–1989 1946–1989 1946–1989 1990–2010 1990–2010 1990–2010 1990–2010

Preferred GRPs of states

213

Table A.1 State-years with Christian Preferred GRPs. (Continued) State

Christian

Western Christian

Ghana Greece Grenada Guatemala Guinea Guinea-Bissau Guyana Haiti Honduras Hungary Iceland Ireland Italy Jamaica Jordan Kazakhstan Kenya Kiribati Korea, Republic of (South) Kosovo Kyrgyzstan Latvia Lebanon Lesotho Liberia Liechtenstein Lithuania Luxembourg Macedonia Madagascar Malawi Mali Malta Marshall Islands Mauritius Mexico Micronesia, Federated States of Moldova Monaco

1957–2010 1946–2010 1974–2010 1946–2010 1958–2010 1974–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1962–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1963–2010 1979–2010 1948–2010

1957–2010 1957–2010 1957–2010

2008–2010 1991–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1993–2010 1960–2010 1964–2010 1960–2010 1964–2010 1986–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1986–2010

Catholic

Extended Protestant

Orthodox

1946–2010 1974–2010 1946–2010 1958–2010 1974–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1962–2010 1946–2010

1974–2010 1974–2010 1946–2010 1958–2010 1974–2010 1966–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1962–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010

1946–2010 1991–2010

1963–2010 1963–2010 1963–2010 1979–2010 1979–2010 1979–2010 1948–2010 1948–2010 1948–2010 2008–2010 2008–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010

1991–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1966–2010 1966–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010

1960–2010 1964–2010 1960–2010 1964–2010 1986–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1986–2010

1960–2010 1964–2010 1964–2010 1960–2010 1964–2010 1986–2010 1986–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1986–2010 1986–2010

2008–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010

1993–2010

1991–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010

1991–2010

(Continued)

214

Preferred GRPs of states

Table A.1 State-years with Christian Preferred GRPs. (Continued) State

Christian

Western Christian

Catholic

Extended Protestant

Montenegro Mozambique Namibia Nauru Netherlands New Zealand Nicaragua Niger Nigeria Norway Palau Panama Papua New Guinea Paraguay Peru Philippines Poland Portugal Romania Russia Rwanda Saint Kitts and Nevis Saint Lucia Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Samoa San Marino Sao Tome and Principe Senegal Seychelles Sierra Leone Singapore Slovakia Slovenia Solomon Islands South Africa Spain Sudan Suriname Swaziland Sweden

2006–2010 1990–2010 1990–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1946–2010 1994–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1962–2010 1983–2010 1979–2010 1979–2010

1990–2010 1990–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1946–2010 1994–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010

1990–2010 1990–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010

1990––2010 1990–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010

1962–2010 1962–2010 1983–2010 1983–2010 1983–2010 1979–2010 1979–2010 1979–2010 1979–2010

1962–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1960–2010 1976–2010 1961–2010 1965–2010 1993–2010 1991–2010 1978–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 2006–2010 1975–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010

1962–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1960–2010 1976–2010 1961–2010 1965–2010 1993–2010 1991–2010 1978–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 2006–2010 1975–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010

Orthodox 2006–2010

1960–2010 1960–2010 1946–2010 1994–2010 1994–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1975–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010

1962–2010 1946–2010 1975–2010 1960–2010 1976–2010 1961–2010 1965–2010 1993–2010 1991–2010 1978–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 2006–2010 1975–2010 1968–2010

1962–2010

1961–2010 1965–2010 1991–2010 1978–2010 1946–2010 2006–2010 1975–2010 1968–2010 1946–2010

2006–2010

Preferred GRPs of states

215

Table A.1 State-years with Christian Preferred GRPs. (Continued) State

Christian

Western Christian

Catholic

Extended Protestant

Switzerland Syria Tanzania Togo Tonga Trinidad and Tobago Tuvalu Uganda Ukraine United Kingdom United States Uruguay Vanuatu Venezuela Vietnam, Republic of (South) Yugoslavia (and Serbia) Zambia Zimbabwe

1946–2010 1946–2010 1961–2010 1960–2010 1970–2010 1962–2010 1978–2010 1962–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1980–2010 1946–2010 1954–1975

1946–2010 1946–2010 1961–2010 1960–2010 1970–2010 1962–2010 1978–2010 1962–2010

1946–2010 1946–2010 1961–2010 1960–2010 1970–2010 1962–2010

1946–2010

1961–2010 1960–2010 1970–2010 1962–2010 1978–2010 1962–2010 1962–2010

1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1980–2010 1946–2010 1954–1975

1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1980–2010 1980–2010 1946–2010 1954–1975

Orthodox

1946–2010

1991–2010

1946–2010

1946–2010

1964–2010 1964–2010 1964–2010 1964–2010 1965–2010 1965–2010 1965–2010 1965–2010

Table A.2 State-years with Muslim Preferred GRPs. State

Muslim

Sunni

Shia

Other Muslim

Afghanistan Albania Albania Algeria Azerbaijan Bahrain Bangladesh Benin Benin Bosnia and Herzegovina Brunei Burkina Faso Burundi Cameroon

1946–2010 1946–1966 1990–2010 1962–2010 1991–2010 1971–2010 1971–2010 1960–1973 1989–2010 1992–2010 1984–2010 1960–2010 2005–2010 1960–2010

1946–2010 1946–1966 1990–2010 1962–2010

1946–2010 1946–1966 1990–2010

1946–2010

1971–2010 1971–2010 1960–1973 1989–2010 1992–2010 1984–2010 1960–2010 2005–2010 1960–2010

1991–2010 1971–2010 1971–2010

1971–2010 1971–2010

1992–2010

1992–2010

(Continued)

216

Preferred GRPs of states

Table A.2 State-years with Muslim Preferred GRPs. (Continued) State

Muslim

Sunni

Chad Comoros Cote d’Ivoire Djibouti East Timor Egypt Eritrea Ethiopia

1960–2010 1975–2010 1974–2010 1977–2010 2008–2010 1946–2010 1993–2010 1974–1976

Fiji Gabon Gambia Ghana Guinea Indonesia Iran Iraq Jordan Kazakhstan Kenya Kosovo Kuwait Kyrgyzstan Lebanon Libya Malawi Malaysia Maldives Mali Mauritania Mauritius Morocco Niger Nigeria Oman Pakistan Philippines Qatar Rwanda Saudi Arabia Senegal Sierra Leone

1970–2010 1960–2010 1965–2010 1957–2010 1958–2010 1949–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1963–2010 2008–2010 1961–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1951–2010 1964–2010 1957–2010 1965–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1968–2010 1956–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1971–2010 1947–2010 2002–2010 1971–2010 1962–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1961–2010

1960–2010 1975–2010 1974–2010 1977–2010 2008–2010 1946–2010 1993–2010 1974–1976 1991–2010 1970–2010 1960–2010 1965–2010 1957–2010 1958–2010 1949–2010 1946–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1963–2010 2008–2010 1961–2010 1991–2010 1946–2010 1951–2010 1964–2010 1957–2010 1965–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1968–2010 1956–2010 1960–2010 1960–2010 1971–2010 1947–2010 2002–2010 1971–2010 1962–2010 1946–2010 1960–2010 1961–2010

Shia

Other Muslim

1991–2010 1970–2010

1970–2010

1946–2010 1946–2010

1946–2010

2008–2010

2008–2010

1946–2010

1968–2010

1968–2010

1971–2010

1971–2010

Preferred GRPs of states

217

Table A.2 State-years with Muslim Preferred GRPs. (Continued) State

Muslim

Sunni

Shia

Other Muslim

Singapore Somalia Sudan Suriname Syria Tajikistan Tanzania Togo Trinidad and Tobago Tunisia Turkey Turkmenistan Uganda United Arab Emirates Uzbekistan Yemen (unified) Yemen Arab Republic (North) Yemen People’s Republic (South) Zanzibar

1965–2010 1960–2010 1956–2010 1975–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1961–2010 1960–2010 1962–2010 1956–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1962–2010 1971–2010 1991–2010 1990–2010 1946–1989

1965–2010 1960–2010 1956–2010 1975–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1961–2010 1960–2010 1962–2010 1956–2010 1946–2010 1991–2010 1962–2010 1971–2010 1991–2010 1990–2010 1946–1989

1965–2010

1965–2010

1975–2010 1946–2010

1975–2010

1961–2010

1961–2010

1962–2010

1962–2010

1990–2010 1946–1989

1990–2010 1946–1989

1967–1989

1967–1989

1963

1963

Table A.3 State-years with Buddhist Preferred GRPs. State

Buddhist

Theravada Buddhist

Mahayana Buddhist

Other Buddhist

Bangladesh Bhutan Burma Cambodia Cambodia Japan Korea, Republic of (South) Laos Mongolia Singapore Sri Lanka Taiwan Thailand Vietnam, Republic of (South)

1971–2010 1946–2010 1948–2010 1953–1974 1979–2010 1946–2010 1948–2010

1971–2010

1971–2010

1971–2010 1946–2010

1953–2010 1990–2010 1965–2010 1948–2010 1949–2010 1946–2010 1954–1975

1948–2010 1953–1974 1979–2010 1946–2010 1948–2010 1953–2010 1965–2010 1948–2010

1965–2010

1990–2010 1965–2010

1949–2010 1946–2010 1954–1975

1954–1975

1954–1975

Table A.4 State-years with Preferred GRPs of other religions. State Albania Angola Bangladesh Benin Bhutan Cambodia China Congo, Republic of Democratic Republic of Congo Ethiopia Fiji India Israel Japan Korea, Democratic People’s Republic of (North) Mauritius Mongolia Mozambique Nepal Russia (USSR) Singapore Suriname Taiwan Trinidad and Tobago Vietnam, Democratic Republic of

Jewish

Hindu

Shintoist

Confucianist

Taoist

Chinese Folk Religionist

Indigenous

Neo-religionist

Atheist 1967–1989 1975–1989

1971–2010 1996–2010

1974–1988

1980–2010 1975–1978 1949–2010 1970–1991

1946–1948 1972–1977

1977–1990 1970–2010 1947–2010 1948–2010 1946–2010 1948–2010 1968–2010 1946–1989 1975–1989 1946–2010 1946–1990 1965–2010 1975–2010 1949–2010

1949–2010

1949–2010

1962–2010 1954–2010

Appendix B

Organization of religious scripture

Table B.1 The Bible, in Western Christianity. An asterisk (*) denotes a book that is canon in the Catholic Church only. Some Protestant denominations group such books into the Apocrypha, inserted between the Old and New Testaments. Old Testament Pentateuch Genesis (Gen) Exodus (Ex) Leviticus (Lev) Numbers (Num) Deuteronomy (Deut) Histories Joshua (Josh) Judges (Judg) Ruth (Ruth) First Samuel (1 Sam) Second Samuel (2 Sam) First Kings (1 Kings) Second Kings (2 Kings) First Chronicles (1 Chr) Second Chronicles (2 Chr) Ezra (Ezra) Nehemiah (Neh) *Tobit (Tob) *Judith (Jdt) Esther (Esth) *First Maccabees (1 Macc) *Second Maccabees (2 Macc) Poetical/wisdom books Job (Job) Psalms (Ps) Proverbs (Prov) Ecclesiastes (Eccl) (Continued)

220

Organization of religious scripture

Table B.1 The Bible, in Western Christianity. (Continued) Song of Solomon (Song) (or, Song of Songs) *Wisdom of Solomon (Wis) *Sirach (Sir) (or, Ecclesiasticus) Major prophets Isaiah (Isa) Jeremiah (Jer) Lamentations (Lam) *Baruch (Bar) Ezekiel (Ezek) Daniel (Dan) Minor prophets Hosea (Hos) Joel (Joel) Amos (Am) Obadiah (Ob) Jonah (Jon) Micah (Mic) Nahum (Nah) Habakkuk (Hab) Zephaniah (Zeph) Haggai (Hag) Zechariah (Zech) Malachi (Mal) Apocrypha (in some Protestant denominations) (Catholic-specific books placed here) New Testament Gospels Matthew (Mt) Mark (Mk) Luke (Lk) John (Jn) Narrative Acts of the Apostles (Acts) Letters/epistles Romans (Rom) First Corinthians (1 Cor) Second Corinthians (2 Cor) Galatians (Gal) Ephesians (Eph) Philippians (Phil) Colossians (Col) First Thessalonians (1 Thess) Second Thessalonians (2 Thess)

Organization of religious scripture

221

Table B.1 The Bible, in Western Christianity. (Continued) First Timothy (1 Tim) Second Timothy (2 Tim) Titus (Titus) Philemon (Philem) Hebrews (Heb) James (Jas) First Peter (1 Pet) Second Peter (2 Pet) First John (1 Jn) Second John (2 Jn) Third John (3 Jn) Jude (Jude) Apocalyptic literature Revelation (Rev)

Table B.2 The Bible, in Orthodox Christianity. Old Testament Pentateuch Genesis (Gen) Exodus (Ex) Leviticus (Lev) Numbers (Num) Deuteronomy (Deut) Histories Joshua (Josh) Judges (Judg) Ruth (Ruth) First Samuel (1 Sam) Second Samuel (2 Sam) First Kings (1 Kings) Second Kings (2 Kings) First Chronicles (1 Chr) Second Chronicles (2 Chr) First Esdras (1 Esd) Second Esdras (2 Esd) (or, Ezra-Nehemiah) Tobit (Tob) Judith (Jdt) Esther (Esth) First Maccabees (1 Macc) Second Maccabees (2 Macc) Third Maccabees (3 Macc) (Continued)

222

Organization of religious scripture

Table B.2 The Bible, in Orthodox Christianity. (Continued) Poetical/wisdom books Psalms (Ps) Prayer of Manasseh (Pr Man) Job (Job) Proverbs (Prov) Ecclesiastes (Eccl) Song of Solomon (Song) (or, Song of Songs) Wisdom of Solomon (Wis) Sirach (Sir) (or, Ecclesiasticus) Minor prophets Hosea (Hos) Amos (Am) Micah (Mic) Joel (Joel) Obadiah (Ob) Jonah (Jon) Nahum (Nah) Habakkuk (Hab) Zephaniah (Zeph) Haggai (Hag) Zechariah (Zech) Malachi (Mal) Major prophets Isaiah (Isa) Jeremiah (Jer) Baruch (Bar) Lamentations (Lam) Letter of Jeremiah (Let Jer) Ezekiel (Ezek) Daniel (Dan) Appendix Fourth Maccabees (4 Macc) New Testament Gospels Matthew (Mt) Mark (Mk) Luke (Lk) John (Jn) Narrative Acts of the Apostles (Acts) Letters/epistles Romans (Rom) First Corinthians (1 Cor) Second Corinthians (2 Cor)

Organization of religious scripture

223

Table B.2 The Bible, in Orthodox Christianity. (Continued) Galatians (Gal) Ephesians (Eph) Philippians (Phil) Colossians (Col) First Thessalonians (1 Thess) Second Thessalonians (2 Thess) First Timothy (1 Tim) Second Timothy (2 Tim) Titus (Titus) Philemon (Philem) Hebrews (Heb) James (Jas) First Peter (1 Pet) Second Peter (2 Pet) First John (1 Jn) Second John (2 Jn) Third John (3 Jn) Jude (Jude) Apocalyptic literature Revelation (Rev)

Table B.3 The Quran (al-Qur’ān). Sūra

Arabic Name

English Name

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

al-Fātiḥah al-Baqarah Āl ‘Imrān an-Nisā’ al-Mā’idah al-An‘ām al-A‘rāf

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

al-Anfāl at-Tawbah, or Barā’ah Yūnus Hūd Yūsuf ar-Ra‘d Ibrāhīm al-Ḥijr an-Naḥl al-Isrā’

The Opening The Calf/Cow The Family/House of Imran The Women The Food, or The Table The Cattle The Heights, or The Faculty of Discernment The Spoils of War The Repentance Yunus Hud Joseph The Thunder Abraham The Rocky Tract, or The Rock City The Honeybees/Bee The Night Journey (Continued)

224

Organization of religious scripture

Table B.3 The Quran (al-Qur’ān). (Continued) Sūra

Arabic Name

English Name

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

al-Kahf Maryam Ṭā Hā al-Anbiyā’ al-Ḥajj al-Mu’minūn an-Nūr al-Furqān

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

ash-Shu‘arā’ an-Naml al-Qaṣaṣ al-‘Ankabūt ar-Rūm Luqmān as-Sajdah al-Aḥzāb

34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Saba’ Fāṭir, or al-Mala’ikah Yasin aṣ-Ṣāffāt Ṣād az-Zumar Ghāfir, or al-Mu’min Fuṣṣilat, or Ḥā Mīm as-Sajdah ash-Shūrā az-Zukhruf ad-Dukhān al-Jāthiyah al-Aḥqāf

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Muḥammad al-Fatḥ al-Ḥujurāt Qaf adh-Dhāriyāt aṭ-Ṭūr an-Najm al-Qamar ar-Raḥmān al-Wāqi‘ah

The Cave Mary Ta-Ha The Prophets The Pilgrimage The Believers The Light The Criterion/Standard (of True and False) The Poets The Ant, or The Ants The Narrations/Story/Stories The Spider The Romans, or The Byzantines Luqman The Prostration/Worship/Adoration The Clans/Confederates/Combined Forces Sheba The Originator Yaseen Those Who Set the Ranks Saad The Crowds/Troops The Forgiver, or Forgiving Expounded, or Explained in Detail The Consultation The Gold Adornments The Smoke The Kneeling Down/Crouching The Dunes, or The Winding SandTracts Muhammad The Victory/Conquest The Private/Inner Apartments Qaf The Scattering/Winnowing Winds The Mount, or Mount Sinai The Star, or The Unfolding The Moon The Most Merciful/Gracious The Inevitable, or The Event

Organization of religious scripture

225

Table B.3 The Quran (al-Qur’ān). (Continued) Sūra

Arabic Name

English Name

57 58 59

al-Ḥadīd al-Mujādilah al-Hashr

60

al-Mumtaḥanah

61 62 63 64

aṣ-Ṣaff al-Jumu‘ah al-Munāfiqūn al-Taghābun

65 66 67 68 69

aṭ-Ṭalāq at-Taḥrīm al-Mulk al-Qalam al-Ḥāqqah

70

al-Ma‘ārij

71 72 73 74

Nūḥ al-Jinn al-Muzzammil al-Muddaththir

75 76 77 78

al-Qiyāmah al-Insān, or ad-Dahr al-Mursalāt an-Naba’

79

an-Nāzi‘āt

80 81

‘Abasa at-Takwīr

82 83

al-Infiṭār al-Mūtaffifīn

84

al-Inshiqāq

85

al-Burūj

86 87

aṭ-Ṭāriq al-A‘lā

The Iron The Pleading, or The Pleading Woman The Mustering/Gathering, or The Exile/ Banishment The Examined, or She Who Is To Be Examined The Ranks, or The Battle Array The Congregation, or Friday The Hypocrites The Cheating, or The Mutual Disillusion, or Loss and Gain Divorce The Prohibition The Dominion/Sovereignty/Control The Pen The Sure Reality, or Laying Bare the Truth The Ways of Ascent, or The Ascending Stairways Noah The Spirits/Unseen Beings The Enshrouded One, or Bundled Up The Cloaked One, or The Man Wearing a Cloak The Resurrection, or Rising of the Dead The Human/Man The Emissaries, or Winds Sent Forth The Great News, or The Announcement/Tidings Those Who Tear Out/Drag Forth, or Soul-Snatchers He Frowned The Folding Up, or Shrouding in Darkness The Cleaving Asunder/Bursting Apart Defrauding, or Those Who Give Short Measure The Rending Asunder, or Splitting Open The Mansions of the Stars, or Constellations The Nightcomer, or The Morning Star The Most High, or Glory to Your Lord in the Highest (Continued)

226

Organization of religious scripture

Table B.3 The Quran (al-Qur’ān). (Continued) Sūra

Arabic Name

English Name

88 89 90 91 92 93

al-Ghāshiyah al-Fajr al-Balad ash-Shams al-Layl aḍ-Ḍuhā

94

al-Inshirāh

95 96

at-Tīn al-‘Alaq

97

al-Qadr

98

al-Bayyinah

99 100 101

al-Zalzalah al-‘Ādiyāt al-Qāri‘ah

102

at-Takāthur

103

al-‘Aṣr

104 105 106 107

al-Humazah al-Fīl Quraysh al-Mā‘ūn

108

al-Kawthar

109

al-Kāfirūn

110

an-Naṣr

111

al-Masad

112

al-Ikhlāṣ, or at-Tawḥīd

113 114

al-Falaq al-Nās

The Overwhelming Event, or The Pall Daybreak/Dawn The City/Land The Sun The Night The (Glorious) Morning Hours, or The Morning Bright Solace/Relief, or Patient, or The Opening-Up of the Heart The Fig/Fig Tree The Clinging Clot (of Blood), or The Germ-Cell The Night of Honor/Decree, or Power/ Fate/Destiny The Clear Evidence/Evidence of the Truth The Earthquake The Courser/Chargers/War Horse The Striking Hour/Stunning Blow, or The Great/Sudden Calamity The Piling Up/Competition/Rivalry, or Greed for More and More The Declining Day, or The Time/ Epoch, or The Flight of Time The Scandalmonger/Slanderer The Elephant Quraysh The (Neighborly) Assistance, or Almsgiving, or Small Kindnesses Abundance/Plenty, or Good in Abundance The Disbelievers, or The Deniers of Truth The Help/Divine Support/Victory/ Succor The Plaited Rope/Palm Fiber/Twisted Strands Purity of Faith, or The Fidelity, or Declaration of (God’s) Perfection Daybreak/Dawn/Rising Dawn Mankind/Men

Organization of religious scripture

227

Table B.4 The Pali Canon. Abbreviations are those of the original Pali Text Society translations, followed by the conventional abbreviations for referencing specific suttas, if any. Vinaya Piṭaka (Vin) (The Basket of the Discipline) Suttavibhanga (–; SVibh) Khandhaka Mahavagga (–; Mv) Cullavagga (–; Cv) Parivara Sutta Piṭaka (The Basket of Discourses) Dīgha Nikāya (D; DN) (The Long Discourses) Majjhima Nikāya (M; MN) (The Middle Length Discourses) Saṃyutta Nikāya (S; SN) (The Grouped Discourses) Aṅguttara Nikāya (A; AN) (Numerical or Gradual Discourses) Khuddaka Nikāya (Division of Short Books) Khuddakapāṭha (Khp) (The Short Passages) Dhammapada (Dhp) (The Path of Dhamma) Udāna (Ud) (Exclamations) Itivuttaka (It) (The Thus-Saids) Suttanipāta (Sn) (The Group of Discourses) Vimānavatthu (Vv) (Stories of the Mansions) Petavatthu (Stories of the Hungry Ghosts) Theragāthā (Th) (Stories of the Elder Monks) Therīgāthā (Thī) (Stories of the Elder Nuns) Jātaka (Ja; J) (Birth Stories) Niddesa (Nidd) (Exposition) Paṭisambhidamagga (Paṭis) (Path of Discrimination) Apadāna (Ap) (Stories) Buddhavaṃsa (Bv) (History of the Buddhas) Cariyāpiṭaka (Cp) (The Basket of Conduct) Nettippakaraṇa (Nett) (Burmese canon only) Peṭakopadesa (Peṭ) (Burmese canon only) Milindapañha (Mil) (The Questions of Milinda; Burmese canon only) Abhidhamma Piṭaka (The Basket of Abhidhamma) Dhammasaṅgaṇī (Dhs) (Enumeration of Phenomena) Vibhaṅga (Vibh) (The Book of Treatises) Dhātu-kathā (Discussion with Reference to the Elements) Puggalapaññiti (Description of Individuals) Kathā-vatthu (Points of Controversy) Yamaka (The Book of Pairs) Patthana (The Book of Relations)

̄

228

Organization of religious scripture

Table B.5 The Taishō Tripitaka. Volume

Sutra(s)

Name

1–2

1–151

3–4 5–8 9a

152–219 220–261 262–277

9b–10 11–12a 12b 13 14–17 18–21 22–24 25–26a 26b–29

278–309 310–373 374–396 397–424 425–847 848–1420 1421–1504 1505–1535 1536–1563

30a 30b–32 32 33–39 40a 40b–44a 44b–48 49–52 53–54a 54b 55 56–83

1564–1578 1579–1627 1628–1692 1693–1803 1804–1815 1816–1850 1851–2025 2026–2120 2121–2136 2137–2144 2145–2184 2185–2700

84 85a 85b

2701–2731 2732–2864 2865–2920

Āgama (The Agamas) Dīrgha Āgama (corresponds to the Dīgha Nikāya) Madhyama Āgama (corresponds to Majjhima Nikāya, but with more sutras than in Pali Canon) Saṃyukta Āgama (corresponds to Saṃyutta Nikāya) Ekottara Āgama (corresponds to Aṅguttara Nikāya, but with considerable differences) Kṣudraka Āgama (corresponds to Khuddaka Nikāya) Jātaka (Birth Stories) Prajñapāramitā (Perfection of Wisdom) Saddharma Puṇḍarīka (The Lotus Sutra) Avataṃsaka (Flower Garland) Ratnakūṭa (Jewel Peak) Nirvāṇa (The Parinirvana) Mahāsannipāta (The Great Collection) Sūtrasannipāta (Collected Sutras) Tantra (Esoteric Teachings) Vinaya (Monastic Discipline) Sūtravyākaraṇa (Sutra Explanations) Abhidharma (Systematic Analyses; does not correspond to Abhidhamma Piṭaka of the Pali Canon) Mādhyamaka (Madhyamaka) Yogācāra (Yogacara) ´ Sāstra (Treatises) Sūtravibhāṣa (Sutra Clarifications) Vinayavibhāṣa (Vinaya Clarifications) ´ Sāstravibhāṣa (Treatise Clarifications) Sarvasamaya (Sectarian Teachings) Shiden-bu (Histories) Jii-bu (Collected Matters) Gekyō-bu (Non-Buddhist Teachings) Mokuroku-bu (Catalogs) Zokukyōsho-bu (Japanese Commentaries) Siddhaṃ (Siddham) Koitsu-bu (Ancient) Giji-bu (Doubtful)

Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes, bold represent tables and italic represent figures. 9/11 attacks 9, 115, 138–9 Afghanistan 77n20 al-Farabi see Farabi Algeria 139 alliances 54 Aquinas, Thomas 38, 91–2 Arabs 115, 131, 135, 137, 139 armed conflict: between states 31, 40; and Government Religious Preference 59, 66, 67–71, 72–3, 74–5; and religionist populations 58–9, 60–5, 73; synonyms for 3 Armenia 83, 107 A´soka 163–4 Atheism 1, 9, 48, 77n21 Augustine 84–7, 93, 105, 111n14, 111n16, 111n18, 111n23 Averro¨es 120, 133 Azerbaijan 107, 148 Basil the Great 105 Bible (Judeo-Christian) 34, 78–9, 81–3, 87, 93, 110n2–5, 115, 164, 219–23 Buddhist Complex 48, 49, 58–9, 152, 175–7 Bush, George H.W. 4, 30 Byzantine Empire 105–6, 136–7, 151n32 Calvin, John 99–101 Charlemagne 88 China 77n21, 171, 173–6, 181n23 Cicero 85–6, 111n17–18, 111n20 clash of civilizations 10–1 Composite Index of National Capability (CINC) 52–3 Constantine 83–4

Constructivism 2, 3–4, 8, 9, 16n17, 20–1, 32, 54, 183 contract-intensive economies 77n18 Correlates of War Project 44, 47, 52, 54–5, 77n20 Costa Rica 37 Cˆote d’Ivoire 77n14 Counter-Reformation 5, 30, 86, 90 Crusades 5, 86, 88–90 dar al-harb 123–4, 131, 133 dar al-islam 123–4, 132–3, 149n10 dar al-suhl 124–5 Definition of Aggression 45, 76n5 democratic peace 43, 53–4 demographics 6, 47–8 Denmark 6 Durkheim, Emile 27 economic variables 54–6, 77n18–19, 150–1n29 Egypt 77n20 Eliade, Mircea 33 English School 2, 8 ethics: religious 32–5; of war see war ethics Ethiopia 115 Farabi 133–4 first use of force 45–6 France 139 G¨obekli Tepe 33 Government Religious Preference 2, 6–7, 42, 48–52, 77n21–3 Greece 107, 115 Gulf War 4

230

Index

hadith 35, 122, 129, 131, 145 heresy, eradication of: in Christianity 89–90, 112n28; in Islam 132, 134, 138 historical narrative 34, 117–118, 136 holy war 5, 36, 37–8; in Buddhism 167; in Christianity 5–6, 80, 86–91, 111n23, 138; in Islam 128–33, 135, 151n34; see also jihad Huntington, Samuel see clash of civilizations India 115, 163–4, 166, 181n24 Institutionalism 19–20, 183 Iran 4, 5, 9, 48, 77n20, 137–8, 148, 149n12 Iraq 139, 148 Islamic law 121–5, 129 isolationism 36 Israel 31, 115, 139, 142, 148 Japan 5, 173–7, 179n1, 181n23 jihad 128–35, 137–8, 145–6, 151n34 Jordan 139 just war 38; in Buddhism 154, 164–8; in Christianity 80, 82–7, 91–3, 105, 109, 111n23, 112n32; in Islam 125–8, 146; in tension with holy war 100–1, 115, 130–5, 146; in tension with pacifism 93–4, 101–2, 109 Kant, Immanuel 53–4 Kellogg-Briand Pact 43 Korea 175, 177 League of Nations 43 Lebanon 138–9 Luther, Martin 99–101 MacIntyre, Alisdair 12, 27 Mahavaṃsa 166 martyrdom 137, 146, 149, 151n36 Medina Charter 119, 149n4 militarized interstate dispute (MID) 45–7, 55, 76n9–10 Morocco 125 nationalism 106–7, 135 New Haven School 44 Nonpreferred religion 50 Norway 48 operational code 35 other-regarding ethics 36

pacifism 36, 37; in Buddhism 154–64; in Christianity 80–2, 110n6 Pakistan 15n6, 115 Pali Canon 34, 153–65, 167, 170, 172, 179, 179n2–3, 180n7, 180n9, 227 political theory: in Buddhism 154–5, 157–62; in Christianity 78–80; in Islam 118–21, 134, 136 Polity dataset 54, 150n29 power 52–3 Preferred religion 50, 77n21–3, 211–8 priesthood, function of 34 proximity 55–6 Quran 34, 115–8, 121–35, 145–6, 149n9, 150n19, 150n22–3, 151n30, 223–6 Rahula, Walpola 164 rare-event logit regression 44 Realism: Christian 3; in international relations 3, 15n4, 36, 37, 43, 52–3, 183; Neoclassical 22–4, 28, 183; religion and 17–19, 40n3 Reformation 30 regime type 53–4, 56, 77n18 regional effects 55 religion: classification 49; and conflict literature 9–14; and culture 12, 34; definition of 10; and epistemic communities 30; and ethics, see ethics; and foreign policy 5, 22–31; and ideology 11–12, 31, 35, 41n18, 183; influence on governing officials 24–7; influence on government (as a whole) 29–31; influence on population 27–9; influence on public opinion 29–31; and international law 4, 12, 15n4; and international relations 17–21, 31, 40; and materialism 8, 17, 28; and norms 13, 21, 31, 33–4; and political psychology 24–7; resurgence of 8–9, 17; sociology of 27–9; and violence 11, 13, 33, 66, 114, 155–7 Religion and State Dataset 48 Religious Characteristics of States 2, 113n47; and demographics 2, 42, 47–8; see also Government Religious Preference Religious Economy School 11, 29 Risala 146 Russia 77n20–21, 106–7, 113n49

Index Sadat, Anwar 30 Saudi Arabia 6, 48, 166 self-regarding ethics 36, 37 shahid see martyrdom Shaybani 131–3, 150n27 Social Identity Theory 27–8 Somalia 115 Spain 28 Sri Lanka 165–7, 180n18 stereotypes 2–3, 7 Su´arez, Francisco 93 Taisho Tripitaka 153, 170–3, 179n3–4, 180n10, 181n19–21, 228 Tertullian 81–3 Thailand 165 Thucydides 43 time 55 Turkey 15n10, 107, 115, 139 Turkmenistan 77n20 Uganda 7 UN Charter 43, 54, 76n5, 146 United Kingdom 102, 104 United States 6, 15n10, 48, 102, 104, 139, 175

231

Vietnam 175 Vitoria, Francisco 92–3, 112n35–6 war ethics: generally 33, 36–40, 182–3; bi-modal 38, 39, 152, 168, 182; in Buddhism generally 152–3, 155–70; in Buddhist Complex 175–7, 178–9; in Catholicism 80–95, 97–9, 109; in Christianity generally 95–9, 109, 148; classification of 36–8; in Eastern Christianity 83, 104–10; in Islam generally 125–42, 148; in Mahayana Buddhism 170–5, 176–7; permissive 36, 38, 39, 94, 114–115, 128–31, 139–42, 145, 168, 182; in (Extended) Protestantism 99–104, 109; restrictive 36, 38, 39, 78, 94–5, 97–9, 109, 148, 168, 182; in Shia Islam 145–9; in Sunni Islam 142–5, 149; in Theravada Buddhism 170, 171–2; in Western Christianity 80–104, 109 Weber, Max 29–30, 32, 34–5, 41n13 Westphalian state system 6, 42, 124