The name of Archbishop Oscar Romero is spoken with reverence in many parts of the world. In 1980, the archbishop of El Salvador was shot dead while Mass was being celebrated, and the sermons and reflections left behind have since been gathered into The Violence of Love. Although written in a different land and era, the lessons contained in the book are considered relevant to every community, including the villages and towns of Nagaland, where faith is deeply cherished.
Romero was not always regarded as a prophet. Early in the ministry, a cautious and quiet churchman was seen in him. A turning point was reached when a close friend, Father Rutilio Grande, was murdered for standing with poor farmers. From that moment, a conviction was formed and repeated from the pulpit - faith cannot be separated from the suffering of neighbours. Worship that leaves the hungry unfed, the widow unheard, and the outcast unseen is judged to be hollow. The Gospel is not merely admired inside church walls. It is tested in the lanes, hospitals, and fields where the poor, the marginalised, and the oppressed are found.
The title of the book is often misunderstood. Violence, as the word is used here, is not the violence of fists and weapons. It is the force of love, radical, active, and transformative, that disturbs comfortable silence and breaks the chains of injustice. Such love is not regarded as soft sentiment. Courage is demanded by it, because comfort is disrupted and unjust arrangements are challenged. Genuine peace is not understood as the mere absence of conflict. It is the fruit of justice and dignity. This is the peace envisioned in the ancient prophecy of swords being beaten into plowshares, where instruments of harm are turned into tools of nourishment.
True reconciliation is not hurried or cheap. Wrongs cannot be wished away, nor can wounds be buried beneath polite words. Truth must first be faced, and the dignity of those who were harmed must be restored. Only then can forgiveness be offered in a way that heals instead of silences. Forgiveness is portrayed not as weakness but as strength, the strength to refuse to let bitterness be handed down to the next generation. Households divided over land, neighbours estranged by old grievances, and families fractured by addiction or loss all stand in need of such healing.
Nagaland is a land where the ideals of community have long been treasured. Traditionally, wealth was meant to be shared, as seen in the feasts of merit, and no member was expected to be left behind by the village. The church, too, has been woven into daily life, with congregations filled every Sunday and hymns carried across the hills. Yet many struggles are borne quietly: unemployment among the youth, the spread of drugs and HIV, the loneliness of the elderly, the hardships of widows and daily-wage workers, and the isolation of migrant labourers. Romero’s legacy is therefore felt as a gentle but firm question. Is faith to be measured by the buildings that are raised, or by the lives that are lifted?
Practical steps are not beyond reach. A struggling family can be visited, a student’s fees can be supported, a rehabilitation centre can be encouraged, and a rift between neighbours can be mended. Such acts, however small, are the plowshares of ordinary life. Compassion is made visible by them, and a society is slowly made whole.
Romero’s words and witness are remembered not so that admiration may be offered from a distance, but so that action may be inspired. In the end, it is love, demanding, courageous and forgiving, that is called upon to build a community in which no one is overlooked.
