"Crucify him!" I said

One of the most dramatic moments of any Catholic Christian's year is that moment in the Good Friday liturgy when, in the reading of the Passion, the entire congregation calls out, "Crucify him!" [Update: Reading this magnificent first chapter from Fr. Neuhaus's book on Good Friday (thanks Ross), I see that I misremember; the "Crucify him!" is spoken on Palm Sunday. -- RD] The point, obviously, is to bring home the solemn truth that it is we who bear the guilt for Christ's death. It was our sins that put him on the Cross. And less theologically, if we had been in that crowd that day, we likely would have stood with the masses in demanding Jesus' death.

Reflecting on the courage it takes to stand against the crowd when one's life is on the line, Sir Ian Kershaw, the historian of Nazi Germany, writes:

Whether, as Dr. Johnson claimed, courage is the greatest virtue -- greater, that is, than justice or love -- is contestable. But is any virtue more difficult to uphold when put to an extreme test? It seems hard to imagine a greater test than standing up for principles, at the risk of life and liberty (also potentially involving friends and family), in the conditions of the unconstrained brutality of a police state. The Nazi regime provides as severe a moral test as can be imagined.

I think I would have failed the test -- along with millions of others. When, in 1983, I published one of my first books on the Nazi era, on political dissent in the Third Reich, I remarked: "I should like to think that had I been around at the time I would have been a convinced anti-Nazi engaged in the underground resistance fight. However, I know really that I would have been as confused and felt as helpless as most of the people I am writing about."

My book was about everyday forms of dissent, not fundamental opposition to Nazism. But even very minor forms of political nonconformity invited recrimination. Telling a political joke, tuning in to foreign radio broadcasts, or even listening to jazz -- actions that would not even be noticed in a democracy -- were among the manifestations of political nonconformity that could result in imprisonment. In a society that opened the door to denunciation, no form of behavior that the regime saw as a challenge to its authority was free from risk. One needed courage to act in ways that could result in severe reprisals.

Tens of thousands of Germans engaged in activities that went much further than everyday dissent. Their courage derived from principles that would brook no compromise with Nazi ideas and methods.

Would you have had the courage to stand up to the Nazis? I like to think I would have. But what if that meant not only my death, but the death of my children? The equation changes, doesn't it? Closer to home, when I read accounts of the struggle for black civil rights in the South only a handful of years before I was born, I like to think that I would have been on the right side, had I been an adult then. But the truth is, I almost certainly wouldn't have been. There weren't many examples of white middle-class Southern courage in those days. Having grown up in the Deep South post-segregation, I think I have a fairly decent idea of the kind of bravery it would have taken for anyone, black or white, to have stood up against the status quo. It wasn't Nazi Germany, obviously, but it was bad enough.

And if I probably wouldn't have had the guts to stand up against my culture and my privilege and the authorities for the sake of justice for black Americans, how on earth is it possible to think that I, standing in that Jerusalem mob, would have summoned the courage to defend Jesus? Peter saw him walk on water, and still lost his courage. Had I been there, I may not have understood what was at stake, and joined the crowd in good faith, trusting in the judgment of my religious leaders. Or worse, maybe I would have known a terrible injustice was taking place, but convinced myself that my silence wasn't an important failure, and gotten calmly about my business. You too, I'm guessing.