The Second Slap: The Foolish Reality of Turning the Other Cheek
Sooner or later, we run out of cheeks. What then?
The Second Slap
Let's talk about the idea of "turning the other cheek." It's a phrase we often hear, based on something Jesus says in Matthew. But what does it really mean? Some read this as a kind of sacrificial gesture meant to take away the power of violence by willingly succumbing to it. Others suggest it is a defiant act of non-violence — a way of telling the perpetrator that their cruelty will have no lasting effect on one’s spirit. These folks might say it's a powerful way to show your strength, as if offering up the other cheek will make the person who slapped you think twice. But let’s be real: sometimes, turning the other cheek just gets you slapped again. No pause. No remorse. Just two quick slaps. Bam. Bam.
It’s Not Just a Metaphor to Some Folks
I recently had a chat with someone who thinks of themselves a devout Christian. They argued, why even risk that second slap? Just carry a concealed weapon. This line of thought went beyond personal safety—it extended to a "you hurt me, I hurt you worse" kind of mentality.
It’s easy to roll our eyes and say this person missed the whole point of turning the other cheek. But pause for a moment—there’s something more going on here. The struggle to grasp the concept of non-violence isn’t unique to this individual. It's actually a symptom of a larger, societal hang-up, one that’s not limited to gun enthusiasts in the United States.
The "he hit me first, so I’ll hit him back harder" logic is a worldwide issue. You’re probably already there with me: Russia justifies actions against Ukraine with a tit-for-tat rationale. Israel and Hamas, too, are caught in a cycle of retaliation where the (next) first strike is used as a reason for escalating force. Even here at home, we see the logic at play when police confront unarmed Black and Brown civilians, often using the presumption of threat as a license for disproportionate response.
Justification Versus Justice
The essence of the problem lies in justification. Once you say, "he hit me first," you’re not just explaining an action; you’re giving yourself a free pass for whatever comes next. And that 'next' is often worse, much worse, than the initial act. It’s like lighting a match in a room filled with gas fumes—once you start, it's almost impossible to control the explosion.
Contrast this with the concept of true justice, which seeks not to react but to redress, not to escalate but to equitably restore. Justice aims to bring balance back to a system or relationship where it has been lost, looking to repair harm rather than perpetuate it. This restorative justice is mindful of the humanity of both the victim and the offender, keen to preserve the dignity of each.
The pitfall of justification is that it makes us myopic. It narrows our field of vision to an act of retribution, blinded to the ripple effects it could have. Under the banner of justification, nations have waged wars, communities have been torn apart, and individuals have suffered. All because we mistook revenge for justice, retaliation for reparation.
Justice as Controlled Burn
Think of true justice as a form of "controlled burn," one that eliminates the toxic elements without destroying the ecosystem in which they exist. Unlike the wild, indiscriminate blaze that justification can ignite, justice requires a more measured, focused approach. It metabolizes the wrongs, the harms, the slights, but aims to leave the soil richer, the community healthier, and the individual more whole than before.
The challenge here is to shift our thinking, to break free from the cycle of justifying escalation. It requires a “controlled burn” of our instincts and impulses—a deliberate, conscious effort to transform and transcend our anger and our fear. That doesn't mean you become a pushover; it means you gain the clarity to respond rather than react.
But, my friends, justice — even restorative justice — while good, is not what turning the other cheek is about.
The Gift of Foolishness
When we talk about "turning the other cheek," we’re not merely talking about whether our preferred response — non-violence, justice-oriented restoration, or sacrificial offering — is virtuous or not. I don’t think the idea of turning the other cheek is meant to signal our righteousness or enlightenment, at least not entirely. For me, “turning the other cheek” is a warning, an advisory label, for how life is going to confront us. It tells us, loud and clear, that the path ahead may exact a heavy toll. It’s a gauntlet of slaps, a metaphorical frat party hazing gone awry. Slaps are embarrassing. Slaps induce feelings of shame. Slaps, literal and figurative, are everyday occurrences. You risk not just public humiliation or personal discomfort but real, tangible losses. In a world that often rewards vengeance and power grabs, standing still with your face exposed for a second slap can look like foolishness, especially in a world that stopped counting slaps a long time ago. And it is the deep foolishness of turning the other cheek that’s what it’s all about.
If we're all honest, many life choices are calculated based on a particular logic: maximizing benefits, minimizing harm, and avoiding what might make us look foolish. Logic dictates that if someone slaps you, you defend yourself or retaliate to deter future aggression. Yet, turning the other cheek defies all these logical expectations. It's a step that doesn't compute in our world's survival-of-the-fittest narrative.
Foolishness as Revelation
This is where the intrinsic foolishness of turning the other cheek comes into focus. This isn't about broadcasting your enlightenment, showcasing your virtue, or even wearing your sacrifice like a badge of honor. It's about accepting that the world is not a fair arbitrator of justice, and choosing, with full acknowledgment of the risks, to be a fool in the face of that. But not just any fool—a fool who can disrupt the cycle, who can throw a wrench in the machinery of retribution and call its bluff. Such foolishness reveals and calls attention to the absurdity of the first, second, or seventy-seventh slap.
The Controlled Burn of Foolishness
Imagine turning the other cheek as a controlled burn of cultural norms and evolutionary impulses, a purging of the often-toxic ways we're told to handle confrontation. By choosing to not retaliate, you're setting a small fire to the kindling of vengeance, arrogance, and pride that often fuels bigger, uncontrollable flames. It's a foolish act, yet in that foolishness lies the potential for transformation. In choosing vulnerability over vengeance, humility over hubris, and love over latent anger, we foolishly press on in a world that's given up counting slaps.
Turning the other cheek doesn't mean you're inviting abuse or sanctioning harm. It means you're challenging a broken system or relationship, refusing to play a game rigged to dehumanize you and the person standing opposite you. It means you're strong enough to show vulnerability, to offer another human being a second chance to reconsider their actions. And a third. If you keep turning your head, there’s always another cheek to be slapped. And that’s part of the point. It's about exposing the frailty of the aggression, the senselessness of the violence, by not participating in it.
Turning the other cheek is choosing to participate in the life before us. It is not receding into victimhood or charging forward in vengeance. It is simply being here, engaged, and alive in the face of another.
Turning the other cheek is about controlled, intentional, weird, unexpected engagement for the sake of transformative change. It’s an active practice of metabolizing societal and personal anger, aggression, and violence into something regenerative. When you turn the other cheek, you're performing a controlled burn on the toxic elements of our world and its relationships, taking them in and neutralizing them, not letting them spread.
By leaning into the foolishness of turning the other cheek, we're also leaning into something far more complex and beautiful. We’re making room for the possibility that within acts that defy logic, we may find glimpses of the sacred, the transformative, and the deeply human. It's foolishness as a spiritual practice, a paradoxical strategy to bring us back to what truly matters in a world that often seems to have forgotten.