Our own little Saint Bartholomews…

Pierre-Olivier Léchot
Translation Tony Dickinson

In his 1994 film, La reine Margot, Patrice Chéreau chose to illustrate the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre with images deliberately reminiscent of the mass graves of the war that was ravaging Yugoslavia at the time. The choice was understandably contentious: nothing seemed to link the ethnic exterminations in Bosnia to the religious massacres of 1572. The two crimes had neither the same motivations nor the same proportions. This is undoubtedly true in historical terms: each era, and therefore each historical horror, has its own specificity. It cannot therefore be reduced to the categories of the present. But this does not prevent us from raising the question of mass slaughter from an anthropological and, above all, theological point of view. A number of recent studies have highlighted the constants in mass violence, whether ethnic or religious. Historians Denis Crouzet and Jérémie Foa reminded us of this in two recent works on the Wars of Religion, when they compared the events of August 1572 with tragedies such as those in Rwanda. One of these constants is that, contrary to what we often imagine, strangers do not kill strangers. The image of the wicked Catholic outsider barging in on a Huguenot family is a romantic interpretation: it is neighbours, members of the same family, people from the same neighbourhood who kill each other in the streets of Paris or who turn to accredited assassins, denouncing someone they know. Of course, the massacre is a good opportunity to settle scores: to eliminate a mother-in-law whose inheritance you covet or a neighbour who is too successful. But behind these minor instrumentalities, what dominates is a persistent desire to purify the immediate environment (family, neighbourhood, professional association, etc.) of the taint represented by the other and his/her difference.

And what about us? Of course, we’ve never taken part in a mass murder. But is it enough to leave it at that? In his Large Catechism (1529), Martin Luther wrote about the commandment « thou shalt not kill », following the Gospel of Matthew (5:21): « we sin against this commandment by the very fact that we become angry ». For the Reformer, the root of anger against others is most often envy: « If your neighbour sees that you have a better house and home than his, that you receive more good things and happiness from God than he does, that upsets him, he envies you and says nothing good about you. Where murder is forbidden, there is also forbidden any motive from which murder may arise. For many people, though they do not kill, nonetheless curse and wish evil.” What Luther is pointing to here is precisely what lies at the root of mass murder, even if few of us take it to its logical conclusion. We are all guilty of not liking someone, of envying their situation, of feeling that they don’t belong or that we would do better than them if we were in their shoes. For Luther, to think that someone doesn’t deserve what they have, or to think that they don’t belong where they are, that their presence is disturbing, is to think that things would be better if they weren’t there or if we took their place. To want to replace someone, Luther explains, is nothing more than unconsciously to wish them dead.

Of course, one might think that the Reformer is exaggerating. But what he is pointing to here is nothing less than what Sigmund Freud called the death drive (Beyond the Pleasure Principle, 1920). Most of us have never taken part in mass slaughter, that’s true. But the story of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, the story of the massacres in Rwanda or the investigations by journalists into war crimes in Ukraine should not remain distant events for us, because they actually question our relationship with others: are we prepared to accept others as they are? Luther, in fact, goes further: to look upon another in the light of faith in God is not just a matter of avoiding causing them suffering. It means seeking their good: « by letting someone go naked, when you could have clothed him, you have caused him to freeze to death; if you see someone suffering from hunger and you do not give him food, you are causing him to starve to death. Likewise, if you see someone condemned to die or in similar distress and you do not help him although you know ways and means of doing so, you have killed him. » In fact, what should guide our steps is not simply the principle of the prohibition of murder, but the call of love: « It will do you no good to object that you did not help [another person’s death], either in word or in deed; for you withdrew love from him.” Respecting the fifth commandment, not to kill, means feeling invited to promote life at every opportunity we are given to look at others as they are, that is, as brothers or sisters and not as troublemakers. All of us, men and women, are always liable to commit « little Saint Bartholomews », to neglect the other person, to look away from their suffering, or even to think that their presence or even their existence disturbs us. But all of us, women and men, are also capable, in faith, of loving and allowing ourselves to be overwhelmed by the call of life that God addresses to us at every moment.

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