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Vol. 24.2 (Fall 2024): Dogmatic Refusals or Refusals of Dogmatism? What Pacifism and Nonviolence Imply

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After three consecutive issues shaped by concentrated guest-editor projects — the Butler symposium of Vol. 23 and the Le Guin/Butler pairing of Vol. 24.1 — Vol. 24.2 returns to the broader, more eclectic register that has always characterized The Acorn at its most expansive. The issue carries no single organizing theme in the guest-editor sense, but it is far from miscellaneous: Moses’s editorial introduction, written in Austin in March 2025, identifies a governing question that binds the disparate contributions together — the distinction between dogmatic pacifism (which applies rigid habits of indifference to self-reflection and circumstance) and philosophical pacifism (which is constitutively committed to inquiry, debate, and the application of ideals to a non-ideal world). The issue went to press in the immediate aftermath of the 2024 US presidential election, and that political atmosphere — its anxieties, its disillusions, and what they demand of anyone committed to nonviolence — hovers explicitly over several of the contributions.

The issue opens with Sanjay Lal’s feature essay, “Gandhian Insights as a Possible Cure for the Post-Election Blues,” which is the most directly topical piece The Acorn has published in recent memory. Writing in the wake of November 5, 2024, Lal turns not to Gandhi the political tactician but to Gandhi the philosophical counselor, drawing out four aspects of his thought that bear directly on the emotional and moral condition of activists in defeat. The first is Gandhi’s insistence that political power resides in the people — not in parliaments or election outcomes — and that civil disobedience is “the storehouse of power”: a resource that no electoral result can deplete. The second is Gandhi’s priority of moral standing over electoral success and his argument that means and ends are inseparable — that no political victory achieved by moral disregard can count as a victory in any meaningful sense. The third is Gandhi’s concept of swaraj or self-rule: that genuine community liberation is impossible without prior moral self-governance in the individual, making inner work the precondition rather than the alternative to political engagement. The fourth is Gandhi’s counsel of nonattachment to consequences — his Bhagavad Gita-inflected insistence that right action is always within the individual’s control, while outcomes never are. Lal closes by defending Gandhi’s remarkably positive view of human nature, arguing that the love-force Gandhi describes as the basis of social life is visible in everyday familial and neighborly relations even among voters whose political choices appear to contradict it.

Andrew Fiala’s “Whose Pacifism? Which Nonviolence? Key Questions that Guide the Inquiry of Philosophical Pacifism” invokes Alasdair MacIntyre’s questions about rationality and justice as a methodological prompt. Fiala proposes five clarifying questions that he argues are implicit in all serious pacifist literature but rarely made explicit: Who has the obligation to be peaceful? To whom is pacifism addressed? When, or under what circumstances, is nonviolence required? What kinds of nonviolence should be employed? And in what manner and to what degree should the commitment to nonviolence be manifest? By working through each in turn, Fiala demonstrates that philosophical pacifism is not the simplistic, dogmatic position that critics such as Sam Harris and Derrick Jensen caricature, but an open-ended inquiry that engages the full complexity of ideal and non-ideal theory. Philosophical pacifism, Fiala argues, is ultimately broader and more useful as a critical social theory than traditional just war theory, and a promising convergence between the two traditions is now emerging around the study of jus post bellum. The paper draws a sustained analogy with feminist theory: just as feminism moved from dogmatic assertion to complex, situated inquiry, so too has philosophical pacifism developed into a rich scholarly tradition that resists reduction to any bumper-sticker formula. Carlo Filice’s “Did Jesus Teach Absolute Pacifism?” brings the issue’s inquiry about dogmatism and principle into an unexpected but fitting historical register. Taking a fresh look at Gospel texts, Filice weighs the evidence from both the teachings and the actions of Jesus, and concludes that it weighs clearly in favor of a pacifist leader founding a pacifist movement — one who not only anticipates Kantian standards of principled action but extends the imperative further by grounding it in the fulfillment of love. Modern peace churches, Filice argues, are the most faithful heirs to this heritage. Yet Filice also notes, consonant with Fiala’s findings, that ruling out any engagement with just war theory may be more than the Gospel record strictly warrants — a concern that was not lost on the influential church fathers who followed.

The reviews section features a substantial joint engagement with Mechthild Nagel’s Ludic Ubuntu Ethics: Decolonizing Justice (SUNY Press), under the title “Justice Among Neighbors.” Nagel’s book proposes a dialectical progression of stages through which justice can be transformed: from vengeance, upward through shaming and insurrection, toward restorative justice, and finally to a plateau of transformation where love and laughter thrive. Her analysis engages colonial vestiges embedded in ostensibly peacetime institutions — policing, imprisonment, child welfare agencies — as well as African experiments with formal Truth and Reconciliation processes, the Hawai’ian virtue of balance (Ho’oponopono), and the Lakota Circle of Courage, culminating in a call for abolition democracy. J. Chidozie Chukwuokolo’s review, “Narrative of a Committed Intercultural Philosopher,” offers a careful account of Nagel’s ambitions and her engagement with African T&R processes; Andrew Fitz-Gibbon’s “Transforming Broken Justice” brings decades of personal experience as a foster parent of more than one hundred children to bear on the difficulty of finding solutions for evils that are, as he puts it, too well known; and Nagel responds to both in her “Author’s Reply: Ludic Ubuntu Ethics for Our Times.” Sanjay Lal closes the review section with “The Many Gifts of Intercultural Dialogue,” a review of the Festschrift for Edward Demenchonok, Dialogue and the New Cosmopolitanism: Conversations with Edward Demenchonok, edited by Fred Dallmayr. The volume argues for a cosmopolitanism that is not hegemonic but dialogical — democratic, lateral, among equal partners — grounded in Dallmayr’s conviction that peace is not the product of unilateral will-power but a gift arising from ethical attention to others cultivated through genuine dialogue. Moses notes in his introduction that Demenchonok is also credited within this very issue as the editor of a 2009 special issue on global violence and peace for The American Journal of Economics and Sociology, making Vol. 24.2 a modest but fitting site for celebrating a philosophical life dedicated to intercultural exchange.

Vol. 23.1–2 (2023): Celebrating and Augmenting Judith Butler’s Vital Contribution

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Vol. 23 is a double issue built around sustained philosophical engagement with Judith Butler’s The Force of Nonviolence: An Ethico-Political Bind (Verso, 2020). Its origins trace to a September 2021 email in which the editor invited Will Barnes to reach out to scholars who might be interested in contributing. The response exceeded all expectations: by the time the issue went to press in February 2024, four peer-reviewed articles had been assembled under Barnes’s guest editorship, along with a separate symposium on a second book. The issue is dedicated to Anne F. Pomeroy (1958–2023), Professor of Philosophy at Stockton University, whose wide-ranging scholarly commitments — from Critical Social Theory and African American Philosophy to Feminist Theories and Marxism, culminating in her acclaimed Marx and Whitehead: Process, Dialectics, and the Critique of Capitalism — made her an ideal reader of Butler. Pomeroy had been in what Barnes describes as a “veritable Butler zone” when the manuscript arrived, contributing a remarkable four-thousand-word peer review; her partner, Peter Amato, later informed the editorial team that she had been planning a book on Butler at the time of her death. The issue memorializes her life and work by carrying her name on its dedication page.

Barnes’s foreword, “Celebrating and Augmenting Judith Butler’s Vital Contribution,” surveys Butler’s intellectual trajectory from the performativity arguments of Gender Trouble and Bodies That Matter through The Psychic Life of Power, Precarious Life, and Frames of War, locating The Force of Nonviolence as the point at which Butler takes on the question of violence and nonviolence directly for the first time. The four articles that follow engage that book from complementary angles. Barnes’s own contribution, “A More Skillful Illusion,” navigates tensions between Butler’s poststructuralist and psychoanalytic commitments, arguing that careful navigation of those tensions reveals Butler’s work to be an indispensable but not self-sufficient contribution to the field — one that benefits from supplementation by more “traditional” elements of the nonviolent toolkit: love, morality, and human rights grounded in the integrity and dignity of the individual. Barry L. Gan’s “The Truth of Nonviolence” offers the sharpest critical challenge, beginning with Butler’s association of social-contract theory with a non-relational self. Gan also questions Butler’s grounding of nonviolence in the preservation of life rather than Gandhi’s wider concern for the whole self and all beings. He then questions Butler’s framework of equal grievability as against a concept of function and moral responsibility. Finally, Gan challenges Butler’s claim that violence resists context-independent definition, and their exclusive reliance on a Freudian account of aggression — an overreliance that, Gan argues, occludes the nonviolent remedies to social aggression found in Jane Addams and William James. Capucine Mercier’s “Nonviolence as a Critique of Individualism in Butler and Gandhi” takes a more constructive approach, mapping the convergences between Butler and Gandhi — above all their shared critique of individualism and their questioning of self-defense — and arguing that these convergences demonstrate that any adequate defense of nonviolence must be grounded in interdependency and equality. Mariah Partida’s “Is Judith Butler’s Rejection of Liberal Individualism Compatible with a Relational Understanding of Autonomy?” opens a productive gap in Butler’s argument. Partida contends that Butler’s tendency to sidestep autonomy as a concept is a mistake, and that if autonomy is reconceived through the philosophy of disability as an intersubjective achievement rather than a liberal possession, it becomes indispensable to both the theory of nonviolence and the project of equalizing grievability.

Vol. 23 also features a symposium organized by Graham D. Parsons of the US Military Academy: “The Moral Price of Preparedness: Ned Dobos, Author of Ethics, Security, and the War-Machine, Meets Critics.” Dobos’s book — Ethics, Security, and the War Machine: The True Cost of the Military (Oxford University Press, 2020) — examines the ethical costs of maintaining a standing army, and the forum brings Dobos into conversation with Parsons, Kevin R. Cutright, and Lee-Ann Chae. The juxtaposition of this symposium with the Butler articles is quietly resonant: where Butler’s book theorizes the psychosocial conditions that make nonviolence possible or impossible, the Dobos symposium presses the question from the institutional and strategic side, asking what obligations — and what moral prices — attach to the security apparatus that liberal states maintain. Together, the two sections of Vol. 23 constitute a compact but unusually rich meditation on the deep structure of political violence and the philosophical resources available for resisting it.

Vol. 18.1-2 (2018): Pacifism and Nonviolence as Philosophical Mandate

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Vol. 18 opens with a declaration: pacifism and nonviolence are not marginal or naïve positions but the core of a robust philosophical tradition deserving serious, sustained engagement. The editor’s introduction notes a small but telling coincidence — around 2014–2015, Andrew Fiala was negotiating the title of what would become The Routledge Handbook of Pacifism and Nonviolence, and in March 2016 The Acorn‘s editors were revising the journal’s own subtitle, both projects landing independently on the same terms. A zeitgeist was at work. Fiala supplies the epigraph for the volume: students sympathetic to pacifism routinely write things like “I’m not really a pacifist, but I think that war is wrong” — a confusion that leaves people unable to clearly affirm what they actually believe. The issue sets out to name the tradition clearly and to argue for its philosophical seriousness across every section.

Andrew Fiala’s lead article, “The Pacifist Tradition, and Pacifism as Transformative and Critical Theory,” makes the systematic case. Against the standard move of defining pacifism as an absolute, dogmatic rejection of all violence — a straw man that is easy to dismiss — Fiala argues that pacifism is best understood as a family resemblance tradition analogous to feminism: a long global conversation, normatively affirmative in character, whose core claim is that peace is an end-in-itself and that nonviolent means are the preferred path toward it. The pacifist canon is wide — Jesus and the Buddha, Erasmus, Tolstoy, Gandhi, Jane Addams, Dorothy Day, King, Thich Nhat Hanh, the Dalai Lama, Robert Holmes — and the tradition interweaves Western, South Asian, East Asian, Islamic, and indigenous sources in ways that standard social and political philosophy has largely ignored. Fiala situates the tradition beside the just war tradition as its historical interlocutor, argues that justice, liberty, equality, and happiness are each best understood within a framework organized around peace, and insists that admitting rare exceptional cases for violence does not defeat the tradition’s core project — which is not primarily about exceptional cases but about transforming the world to reduce them. Steven Steyl’s “What Can Virtue Ethics Offer Pacifists?” takes a complementary approach from within Aristotelian ethics, a tradition that has long been hospitable to war and largely hostile to pacifism. Steyl translates a pacifist argument from suffering into an argument from the virtue of compassion: a genuinely compassionate agent, sensitive as she is to others’ suffering, will be profoundly averse to lethal warfare. But a single-virtue argument cannot by itself constitute a complete pacifism, because the virtues are generally held to be unified and reciprocal — an agent with genuine compassion should also have the courage and practical wisdom to recognize when force is needed. The more serious obstacle is the impracticality objection: a compassion-based pacifism will seem to leave the innocent undefended. Steyl maps two avenues available to the virtue ethicist in responding to this objection, finds neither fully developed in the current literature, and calls for further scholarly work — framing the article as an opening of a research program rather than a conclusion.

The issue’s feature section pairs two very different kinds of tribute. Tommy Curry’s The Man-Not: Race, Class, Genre, and the Dilemmas of Black Manhood won the American Book Award, and Vol. 18 memorializes an Author Meets Critics session hosted by the Society for the Advancement of American Philosophy at its 2018 meeting in Indianapolis. The book’s central argument — that Black men and boys occupy the position of “outgroup-alien males” in patriarchal societies, targeted not for coercion and control but for extermination and social ostracization — draws on social dominance theory and global masculinities research to challenge what Curry sees as intersectionality’s failure to account empirically for the distinct targeting of Black males. Critic Anthony Neal argues that the book does what no other recent text on Black males has done as well: it refuses to simply cite negative statistics and instead catalogues the conditions that produce them, making dehumanization visible as a structured outcome rather than a cultural given. Critic Dwayne Tunstall frames the book as a call to repentance — a demand that US academia forsake its “anti-Black racist misandry” and learn to care about Black men and boys as persons rather than as objects of study or spectacle. The editor notes that as the introduction was being written, Curry was taking a position at the University of Edinburgh — a departure that, given the cultural logic the book describes, the introduction quietly marks as a kind of exile. Duane Cady’s “Remembering Mulford Q. Sibley (1912–1989)” offers a warm, personal, 30-year commemoration of the iconoclastic Quaker pacifist and political theorist who taught at the University of Minnesota for four decades, served as faculty advisor to the Student Peace Union during the McCarthy era, and edited The Quiet Battle, the canonical anthology of nonviolent resistance that circulated among Vietnam War resisters. Cady’s recollections bring Sibley alive — the red tie he adopted as a permanent rebuke to red-baiters, the letter to the student newspaper calling for a campus communist professor, a “Society for the Promotion of Free Love,” and a “Nudist Club” to make clear that the real issue was academic freedom, not communism. Cady first met Sibley in 1972, studied with him at a 1983 NEH summer seminar on utopian literature, and credits Sibley’s encouragement with leading to his first publication.

Six reviews carry Vol. 18’s argument outward into film, activism, philosophy of war, climate theory, music, and literature. Arnold Farr reads Ryan Coogler’s Black Panther film through two competing moral frameworks: the Standard Morality Reading, in which T’Challa is the hero upholding nonviolence, order, and tradition, and the Liberation Morality Reading, in which Erik Killmonger — a product of racial oppression rather than its cause — functions as the conscience of Wakanda, forcing its comfortable citizens to confront the suffering of Black people outside its borders. Farr finds the film genuinely dialectical, with Killmonger raising the question of who gets to define violence when structural oppression is itself a form of it, and ends with skepticism that the sequel will sustain the liberation-philosophical tension rather than reverting to a villain-from-outside plot. Court Lewis reviews Howard Caygill’s On Resistance, which begins with Clausewitz to argue that the philosophy of war is, paradoxically, an illuminating resource for understanding nonviolent resistance — offering, Lewis concludes, “a rubric by which to measure the nature of resistance, whether to understand it as a mere reaction to an event or situation, or to understand it as a means to correct abuses in order to instill positive and lasting changes.” Tom Hastings reviews two books from what he treats as revered Quaker elders: Staughton and Alice Lynd’s third edition of Nonviolence in America: A Documentary History (Orbis, 2018), which now includes documentation of Veterans for Peace joining indigenous resistance to the Dakota Access Pipeline, and George Lakey’s How We Win (Melville House, 2018), a comprehensive guide to nonviolent direct action from a practitioner Hastings calls “a nonviolence training mentor to many.” Walter Kendall reviews Bruno Latour’s Down to Earth, which frames the climate crisis as a failure of political imagination: the standard right-left binary leaves both sides sharing the nation-state presuppositions that make the crisis intractable, and Latour argues for a “Territorial” rather than “Modern” orientation as the necessary conceptual precondition for addressing it — a theoretical preparation, Kendall argues, for evaluating the recently proposed Green New Deal. Finally, Court Lewis reviews two very different books together: Dario Martinelli’s Give Peace a Chant, which classifies Songs of Social Protest by their Umwelt relations, lyrical types, and musical types, recovering the embodied and affective dimensions of nonviolent resistance that political philosophy tends to neglect, and William Irwin’s Little Siddhartha, a philosophical novel that takes up the story where Hesse left off — a “jewel of philosophical literature,” Lewis writes, that invites readers into reflection as their fears of pacifism and nonviolence “take an overdue respite.”

Vol. 17.2 (Fall 2017): Hard Cases, Kantian Guns, and the Legacy of Gene Sharp

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Vol. 17.2 picks up where the previous issue left off in the philosophy of nonviolence and pushes directly into the hardest terrain: the cases where intuition most powerfully resists pacifist conclusions. Both articles argue from within the Western philosophical tradition — Tolstoy and Kant respectively — that nonviolence is philosophically defensible even when the stakes are highest, and the issue closes with two memorial tributes to Gene Sharp, who died on January 28, 2018, two days before the anniversary of Gandhi’s assassination. Taken together, the issue stages a sustained argument that the philosophical foundations of nonviolence are more secure, and more demanding, than either its opponents or its pragmatic defenders tend to acknowledge.

Charles Fink’s “Nonviolence and the Hard Question” takes Tolstoy’s canonical challenge seriously rather than dismissing it — the case of an innocent child threatened by a violent criminal, where killing the attacker seems to be the only option. Fink does not argue that pacifism is obligatory in this case, but that it is at least permissible — and that this more modest conclusion is less trivial than it sounds, since pacifists are routinely accused of cowardice or selfishness precisely for refusing to kill in defense of others. His argument proceeds on three fronts. First, the consequentialist case for defensive killing is shakier than it appears: we cannot know with certainty what the consequences of either action will be, and Tolstoy’s point that killing the criminal is certain while the child’s death is not has more force than our intuitions typically allow. Second, attempts to define violence narrowly enough to permit defensive killing — as retaliation only, or as harm wished for its own sake — fail, because killing someone as a means to an end still treats that person as a mere thing, violating their dignity as surely as any act of malice. Third, and most positively, if it is at least permissible to cultivate agapeic love — the boundless, impartial love that cannot simultaneously wish harm on anyone — then it is at least permissible to commit oneself to nonviolence in every circumstance. Fink draws on the Buddha’s Metta Sutta, the Bhagavad-Gita, and the Sermon on the Mount to show that the ideal of agapeic love is not the exclusive property of any tradition, and that those who would compel us to commit violence in defense of the innocent are implicitly insisting that unconditional love is a moral failing — a conclusion he finds plainly absurd. Matthew Rukgaber’s “Guns as Lies” approaches the question from a different angle, mounting a Kantian argument that guns, like lies, are evil in themselves regardless of the costs and benefits they produce. Kant’s controversial claim is that lying is reprehensible even when it harms no one, because it corrupts practical reason itself — it makes truth a mere means to be used rather than a constraint to be obeyed, erodes character, and ultimately destroys the foundation on which all rights and contracts rest. Rukgaber argues that bearing lethal arms does the same kind of moral damage: guns are not merely dangerous objects but machines with their own normative and material teleology, one that requires the bearer to arrogate to themselves the power of violent enforcement — a power that in a civil society properly belongs only to the collective. Just as lying places individual judgment above the “common authority as the proper enforcer of rights,” so gun ownership constitutes a standing declaration that one wills to live in a community where violent self-help is the operative standard. This structural moral objection, Rukgaber argues, operates independently of any empirical assessment of risk and places a significant burden on any advocate of gun rights to show that the benefits outweigh not only the physical harms guns produce but the moral distortions they require.

Three book reviews carry the issue’s global reach outward in three directions. Bill Gay reviews Todd May’s Nonviolent Resistance: A Philosophical Introduction (Polity Press, 2015), finding it a commendable and accessible introductory text whose core contribution is a taxonomy of four nonviolent strategies: Gandhi’s satyagraha, which seeks to persuade and then to dramatize injustice through willingness to suffer; the “moral jiu-jitsu” of Richard Gregg; the “political jiu-jitsu” of Gene Sharp’s tradition, which exploits the dependence of governments on popular compliance; and the decentralized occupation-based experiments of Occupy and Critical Mass. May roots all four in the values of dignity and equality, drawing largely on Kant for the former and Jacques Rancière for the latter. May’s final chapter on neoliberalism as structural violence — arguing that the appropriate nonviolent response is to undermine rather than overthrow the neoliberal order — is, Gay suggests, one of the book’s most distinctive and timely contributions. Gay notes some gaps, including May’s failure to engage The Acorn and Concerned Philosophers for Peace literature, and his occasional conflation of pacifism with passivism. Sanjay Lal reviews the two-volume anthology Nonviolence as a Way of Life (Motilal Banarsidass, 2017), edited by Predrag Cicovacki and Kendy Hess, which brings together fifty-four contributors from twelve countries and five continents under the rubric of the Jain concept of ahimsa. Lal identifies the collection’s greatest strength as its breadth — chapters range from Jain studies proper (Donaldson on environmental rites, Fisher on the 1947 Partition) to everyday applications in prisons, parenting, medicine, and environmental ethics — while also noting its unevenness, singling out Apressyan’s “The Limits of Nonviolence in Reactive Action” for failing to engage the Gandhian means-ends literature and thus arriving too quickly at a conclusion that violent responses are sometimes justified. He offers sustained praise for contributions by Barry Gan, Robert Holmes, and Johan Galtung, whose pieces collectively make the philosophical case that violence is not basic to human nature and that nonviolence is a continuum rather than a binary. Court Lewis reviews Chaiwat Satha-Anand’s Nonviolence and Islamic Imperatives (Irene Publishing, 2017), a collection of essays written over thirty years that argues Islam’s core values require nonviolence and that the association of Islam with terrorism represents a profound misreading of Islamic history. Satha-Anand’s anchoring move is to reframe September 11 — not as 2001 but as 1906, when Muslim leader Sheth Haji Habib supported Gandhi and helped bring his South African satyagraha movement into existence — and to derive from the Qur’an and Prophetic Traditions five pillars of nonviolent peacemaking: willingness to disobey unjust laws, courage before evil, discipline, community, and constructive action. Lewis recommends the book to anyone seeking a deeper understanding of Islamic history and practice, noting that its insights are valuable to Muslims and non-Muslims alike.

The issue closes with two memorials for Gene Sharp. Barry Gan, former editor of The Acorn, recalls Sharp as a figure who shifted the field of nonviolence decisively toward its pragmatic and political dimensions, deliberately separating strategic nonviolence from the metaphysical and ethical framework in which Gandhi had embedded it. Gan traces Sharp’s intellectual development from early Gandhi scholarship through the magnum opus The Politics of Nonviolent Action (1973) and the later From Dictatorship to Democracy, translated into thirty-one languages and used by activists across the Arab Spring and the former Soviet republics. Gan offers personal memories of Sharp speaking at the Rochester Zen Center in the late 1980s and at an Oxford conference in 2007 — “almost shy, certainly affable” in small settings, “comfortable and expansive” at the podium. Gan’s one note of puzzlement is Sharp’s determination to emphasize the political and ignore the ethical in Gandhi, a separation that Gan, as a philosopher of pacifism, never quite accepted. Jack DuVall, co-author of A Force More Powerful and longtime collaborator with Sharp’s tradition, offers a complementary portrait, calling Sharp “a general of ideas” who built the roads before commerce could travel them. DuVall suggests that the absence of overt moral framing in many Sharp-influenced movements may be less significant than it appears: Vaclav Havel’s insistence that nonviolent resistance means “living within the truth” points to an implicit moral dimension that operated even where explicit ethical commitment was absent. Together the two tributes frame Sharp’s legacy as genuinely open — the colloquy between principled and pragmatic nonviolence that his life’s work provoked is, DuVall writes, “open-ended,” and the rights and freedom of all of us may yet depend on how it continues.