Lucia Ceci’s book explores how, across the twentieth century and into the early twenty-first, sectors of the Catholic world interpreted, justified or contested the use of political violence. Drawing on extensive archival and printed sources and moving chronologically across different national contexts, Ceci argues that violence was at times framed not merely as permissible but as a moral obligation, necessary to defend the faith, protect the common good or promote social justice. Rather than presenting a single, linear narrative, Ceci reconstructs a complex and evolving relationship between Catholic doctrine, political authority and armed struggle.
The introduction traces the theological background, especially the development of the just war tradition. While early modern Catholicism emphasised obedience to legitimate authority, over time the Church reengaged with Thomistic thought, which allowed resistance against tyranny as an extreme measure of last resort. In the twentieth century, popes such as Pius xi and Paul vi cautiously opened space for forms of resistance justified in the name of the common good. This doctrinal evolution, the author suggests, laid the groundwork for later developments such as Liberation Theology, where resistance to structural injustice could take on more radical forms.
The First World War marked a decisive turning point. The fusion of nationalism, religion and politics fostered a ‘political religion’ that sacralised violence against a demonised enemy. In Ireland, the dead of the Easter Rising were widely depicted as Christian martyrs, and although the Vatican maintained diplomatic neutrality, the local Church gradually embraced this narrative. In Italy, initial episcopal opposition to Fascist violence softened after Mussolini consolidated power and granted privileges to the Church. The Holy See prioritised institutional stability and reconciliation with the Italian state, even downplaying Fascist responsibility in political crimes, thereby illustrating the tension between moral condemnation of violence and pragmatic political alignment.
The Cristero war in Mexico further highlighted these tensions. Following anticlerical reforms after the Revolution and the 1917 Constitution, the Mexican government imposed severe restrictions on religious practice. When public worship was suspended in 1926, armed Catholic resistance erupted. Pope Pius xi condemned the persecution and expressed moral solidarity with Catholics but stopped short of endorsing rebellion. Vatican diplomacy, especially under Cardinal Pacelli, regarded violent resistance as impractical rather than inherently illegitimate. The episode demonstrated the Church’s ambivalence: sympathy for persecuted believers coexisted with reluctance to fully sacralise armed revolt.
In Spain, anticlerical violence during the Civil War persuaded the Vatican under Pius xi to support the Nationalist uprising. While the Church refrained from explicitly sacralising Franco’s cause as a crusade, it did not condemn Nationalist violence and allowed a narrative of holy war to flourish among bishops and Catholic intellectuals. Dissenting voices, such as Jacques Maritain, who emphasised the moral complexity of the conflict, remained marginal. The Spanish case exemplified how anti-Communism and the defence of ecclesial interests could align the Church with authoritarian forces.
The Second World War and the Resistance posed new dilemmas. Catholics fought both alongside Fascist regimes and within anti-Fascist movements, sometimes in cooperation with Communists. The Vatican faced pressure to endorse one side unequivocally. Persistent anti-Communism, suspicion of revolutionary politics and institutional ties to existing regimes complicated the Holy See’s response, revealing the difficulty of articulating a consistent moral stance in a polarised world.
During the Cold War, the 1956 Hungarian revolution became a symbol of resistance against Soviet domination. Though the Vatican did not frame the uprising as a crusade, Church leaders praised the courage and sacrifice of the revolutionaries. Resistance was depicted as morally justified, and the suffering of the Hungarian people was often described in quasi-martyrial terms. Even when violence was not explicitly sacralised, it could acquire religious meaning as testimony and witness.
In Latin America, a new theological current emerged in the 1960s that reinterpreted violence in the context of structural injustice. Influenced by revolutionary movements, the Cuban revolution and the reforms of Vatican II, some clergy embraced the idea that armed struggle might be a moral duty in defence of the poor. Father Camilo Torres in Colombia epitomised this shift, declaring revolution an expression of Christian charity. His death in combat transformed him into a symbol of militant faith. Liberation Theology thus marked a significant reconfiguration of Catholic attitudes toward violence, linking it to social emancipation rather than institutional defence.
By contrast, Ceci challenges the notion of a direct continuity between Catholic upbringing and the terrorism of Italy’s Red Brigades in the 1970s. Although many militants had been raised in Catholic environments, she argues that their adoption of a totalising ideological framework represented a radical break rather than a development of Catholic thought. Political violence in this context stemmed from secular revolutionary ideology, not from ecclesial doctrine.
The Rwandan genocide exposed another dimension of the relationship between Catholicism and violence. In a predominantly Christian society, church structures were implicated – through passivity, reinforcement of ethnic divisions and emphasis on obedience – in enabling mass atrocities. Churches became sites of massacre, even as some clergy courageously protected victims. The institutional response was widely judged insufficient, and Pope John Paul ii later acknowledged failures. This episode underscored how theological emphases on order and authority could have devastating consequences.
In the post-Cold War era, violent political action lost much of its legitimacy in global public opinion, and the Catholic Church broadly aligned with peaceful transitions, as seen in Poland and the Philippines. Yet Ceci concludes that the theological legacy of ‘legitimate resistance’ remains embedded in Western culture. Far-right groups in the United States have invoked Christian rhetoric to justify violence against abortion providers, and the rhetoric of the ‘War on Terror’ revived a stark moral dualism that could sacralise conflict. The intertwining of religion and violence, therefore, has not disappeared but continues to reemerge in new forms.
Overall, this book offers a nuanced examination of how Catholic thought has alternately restrained, justified or sacralised violence. By situating theological arguments within concrete historical contexts, Ceci avoids simplistic generalisations and demonstrates the multifaceted, evolving character of the relationship between faith and armed action.
