The recent military conflicts, especially the Russia vs Ukraine war, and the electoral propaganda in the USA—particularly the attack on former President Donald Trump—demand reflection on the relationship between theology and politics. This has been highlighted by the invocation of God's name by both the Patriarch of Moscow on one side, and the American candidate along with his traditionalist supporters on the other. The conflict has been absolutized, considered even "metaphysical," with a call to arms for good against evil. It’s easy to see in these positions a totalitarian drift of the Orthodox theory of the "symphony" in Church/State relations, as well as the fundamentalist-evangelical roots of certain dangerous expressions.
Faced with these clumsy attempts to evoke, without truly invoking, the transcendent Absolute, we must always refer to God’s word, which states: "You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name" (Exodus 20:7).

Our context calls for a renewed political theology and the involvement of the laity in the wisdom that springs from faith, to prevent these tendencies from spreading within Catholic circles. Believers’ cultural engagement needs to reflect on secularism and activate pathways of thought within the act of faith and its contents.

Here, we don’t intend to reflect on the fragility of democracy but rather on the experience of fragility that those who aspire to power, particularly in the United States, are currently facing. On one side, this fragility stems from age and potential psychosomatic issues; on the other, from the possibility of being attacked and wounded—luckily, not killed (though there have been deaths)—during public rallies with large crowds.

As Catholics, we have experienced both situations: either with popes who continued their service despite their precarious physical conditions after a deadly attack—fortunately not fatal, like John Paul II—or like Benedict XVI, who decided to step down so that his fragility would not affect his ministry. Today, we see a Bishop of Rome exercising his teaching authority, not from an imposing gestatorial chair, but from a wheelchair. What lesson comes from these events and experiences?

In light of the most recent dramatic event, I am reminded of the finale of the television series Game of Thrones, which sparked much debate because it was contrary to what one might have expected from the outcome of a power struggle. In that context, Tyrion, the witty dwarf, delivers a significant speech with his surprising proposal: "In the past few weeks, I've had a lot of time to think. I've thought about our bloody history. The mistakes we've made. What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags? It's stories. There's nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it. And who has a better story than... Bran the Broken? The boy who fell from a tower and lived. He knew he’d never walk again, so he learned to fly. He crossed beyond the barrier of a crippled boy to become the three-eyed raven. He's our memory... the keeper of all our stories. Of wars, famines, marriages, births, massacres. Our triumphs... our defeats... our past. Who better to lead us into the future?"

Fragility offers another perspective on the world, on power, on politics, and on the role one is called to play—a third eye, if you will. This is because the experience and awareness of one's own limits allow one to avoid the absolutization of one’s power. We Italians still have in our minds—and as a warning—the images of a dictator showcasing his physical strength, appearing bare-chested while mowing wheat or riding a horse with bravado. Dictators lack awareness of their own limits. Yet, when fragile individuals hold power, the weakness of the leader should be compensated for by the strength of politics, insofar as the one called to govern must decide to seek help and carefully, discerningly choose collaborators, avoiding surrounding themselves with mere look-alikes.

Theological reflection should assist us in the effort to avoid theocratic fundamentalisms, which always lead to violence and deny democratic dialogue. A Christian political theology that explores the meaning of power must inevitably begin with the New Testament.
The most relevant passage in this regard, which needs to be properly interpreted, is found at the beginning of Romans chapter 13: "There is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God" (Romans 13:1). In Latin: "Non est enim potestas nisi a Deo."
It would be extremely interesting to investigate the difference between "authority" and "power," the latter being the term used in the Vulgate. Does all power come from God? Are we certain of that? Even Hitler's or Stalin's power? The context should help us understand such a general expression. Paul is, in fact, concerned here with warning the recipients of his letter (Jewish-Christians residing in Rome) against the temptation to violently oppose the authorities of the empire, which he seeks to reassure by portraying Christians as good citizens, loyal to the laws.

However, a further development in the New Testament’s dynamic on the theme of power can be found in the dialogue between Jesus and Pilate during the civil trial to which the Nazarene is subjected: "You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above" (John 19:11). The fact that the governor is not the origin of his own power (and this applies to every ruler) means that it cannot be exercised in absolute and overbearing terms. The divine origin of power, far from conferring a messianic dimension, is evoked by Jesus to relativize it.

On 12 July, the American artist Bill Viola, a prominent figure in video art, passed away (we hope to a better place). On this occasion, the interview given in 2012 to Friedhelm Mennekes and published in issue 3886 of La Civiltà Cattolica was mentioned by some media outlets. A part of that dialogue, titled Bodies of Light, seems relevant to our topic, as it reflects on the role of fragility and its ability to develop a third eye. The artist recalls a conversation he had with a Zen master in Japan: "We studied Zen with a wonderful man named Dian Tanaka when we lived in Japan in 1980-81. And one day he said something really important to me, something I had never thought about before. I was showing him some of my works and explaining how I’d had problems with certain pieces, and he said to me: You must learn to work from a position of weakness." Of course, the master was referring to the artist’s work, but isn’t politics also an art? Indeed, the art of good governance, which can express itself as such precisely from the fragility of those called to that role.

See, La fragilità dei potenti e la coscienza dei limiti