While reading recently, I encountered a term that initially sounded academic, almost theoretical: violent innocence. At first, I thought it described others—two people or organizations engaged in passive conflict, each claiming innocence while quietly undermining one another. It seemed like a more refined version of passive-aggressive behavior. But as I reflected on it further, it became more unsettling. Not because it described others so accurately, but because it revealed something inside me.
What Is Violent Innocence?
The definition I found was simple but piercing:
Violent innocence refers to a process where an individual or institution inflicts harm while simultaneously claiming innocence, denying responsibility, and defending a self-image of being “good” or “undefiled.”
The violence is subtle. The innocence seems real. And the harm exists in the space between who we believe we are and what our actions — or inactions — actually cause.
James 4:17, “If anyone knows the good, they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin.”
That’s the harsh truth: we can sin just by doing nothing. We can cause harm without yelling or fists. We can hurt others simply by refusing to love.
I Never Thought of Myself as Violent
As a Christian, I have always reserved the term violence for physical or emotional cruelty. Violence comes from rage, evil, or malice—qualities I do not associate with my life. Yet Jesus elevated the standard far beyond physical acts.
Titus 3:14, “Our people must learn to devote themselves to doing what is good, to provide for urgent needs and not live unproductive lives.”
In God’s perspective, violence isn’t just physical harm like broken bones or bruised feelings. It can also be shown through neglect, indifference, silence, refusal to act, withholding mercy, or withholding truth. Harm can come from absence just as easily as from actions.
We depend on artificial rules and protocols to stop us from acting, which in turn protects us from responsibility. We ignore a need, choose comfort over compassion, or justify our inaction with polished excuses — we take part in a form of harm we might never recognize in ourselves.
And we do it while maintaining the belief that we are good.
The Violence of Our Excuses
Almost every day, we get the chance to help someone — and almost every day, we find a reason not to. I don’t have time, or I’d rather not get involved, or even better, they created their situation; now they have to face the consequences.
These statements seem harmless, even rational. But beneath them is a calculation: my convenience outweighs their need.
Proverbs 3:27 “Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.”
Withholding good is not neutral. It shapes the world around us. It shapes our own hearts.
Violent innocence flourishes in this space — where we safeguard our perception of goodness by dismissing the opportunities we pass up.
The Most Damaging Violence: Withholding the Gospel
Here is where the concept becomes painfully personal. As believers, we carry the message of eternal hope — the only hope that rescues the soul. Yet, there are countless moments when we could speak but choose not to. We soften the edges. We stay polite. We remain safe.
If the gospel is life, then silence is not harmless. It is a failure of love.
1 Corinthians 9:16, “Woe to me if I do not preach the gospel!”
Matthew 28:19, “Go and make disciples of all nations.”
When we withhold the truth that could save someone’s eternal life, our innocence turns into a form of violence. Not physical violence — but spiritual neglect. Eternal neglect.
This isn’t about guilt; it’s about responsibility. It’s about love brave enough to risk discomfort for another’s soul.
Letting Go of the Protected Lie
Violent innocence lets us comfortably believe we’re harmless. But Jesus didn’t call us to be harmless. He called us to love—bold, sacrificial, inconvenient love.
Galatians 6:2, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”
To bear a burden, we must first be willing to feel its weight.
We need to allow God to uncover the harm concealed within our innocence—not to condemn us, but to set us free. Innocence isn’t the absence of wrongdoing; it’s the presence of active love.
My prayer is this:
Lord, break the illusion of my innocence and grant me the courage to love.
Let me never cause harm through silence, neglect, or convenience. Let my life demonstrate the mark of someone who took action — someone who loved — even when it was costly.
1 John 3:17, “If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?”
I see Paul as a role model for living. Not just because he’s passionate about sharing the gospel, but in how he lived his everyday life. It’s easy for me to depend on my past as a guide for my future. This way of thinking assumes there’s a fixed trait or unchanging characteristic in who I was that determines who I can become. It’s the old nature-versus-nurture debate. But look at Paul as an example.
This is a sobering truth about your existence: a few decades after you pass away, no one will remember what you did. Sure, close family members might remember your name, but the core of your achievements will fade over time.
When life turns up the heat and hardship defines our existence, do we see it as punishment or an opportunity to grow?
The Trap of a Single Story
Where were you when My children were being murdered, raped, and starved? I gave you talents, resources, relationships, opportunities, and passion. I placed you in a world where you could flourish. As My chosen, I fed you, protected you, and surrounded you with abundance. And when My children cried out in need—where were you?
Are you reaching your Godly potential? Have you maximized what you can do? Maslow once said, “What you can be, you must be.”
Sustainability is about endurance. Our purpose and passion are not always the same as our livelihood; our purpose is to glorify God, and our passion is how we fulfill that purpose. Our livelihood is our vocation, which supports our purpose and passion. Paul was a tentmaker. That was his day job; it funded his ministry.
There is a risk in forming a narrative from a single story. But we do it all the time.
If today were your last day on earth, how would you live it? Reflect on life’s meaning, priorities, and what truly matters most. Most of us don’t get that kind of warning. But if we did, would we choose differently? I don’t mean to sound morbid—but it’s a powerful question worth asking.