Last summer, when my Prophets & Poetry course was discussing the Book of Nahum, a student mentioned that a splinter group of women from a congregation in her hometown had been calling themselves the “Daughters of Nahum.” This seminarian didn’t know much about them (having only seen an invitation to a Facebook event drift across her feed), but I haven’t forgotten about this, especially as Christian nationalism continues to work its way into more and more corners of our political landscape. It’s not about this specific group, which seems to have disbanded (or perhaps re-branded as a local chapter of Moms for Liberty—a group that is not as innocent or virtuous as it sounds). What irks me—as a biblical scholar and as a person of faith—is how the Bible is so frequently used for cynical and destructive political purposes. Now, it’s nothing new for a group to take a phrase or concept from the Bible and use it as an imprimatur, and the Bible does contain many politically destructive texts. Interpreters who ignore the wider historical context, literary complexity, and theological sensitivity are missing important cues in this text. 

So let’s unpack why this specific reference might have been chosen …

The book of Nahum likely dates to the 7th century BCE. It was written around (or is at least set against) the fallThe Fall refers specifically to the disobedience of Adam and Eve when they listened to Satan rather than adhering to God's command not to eat the fruit from the tree. When people act contrary to God's will, they are said to fall from from grace... of the Assyrian Empire. In violent, disturbing, and sexually explicit images, it celebrates the downfall of an enemy nation. The city of Nineveh, personified as a woman, is violated, brutalized, and gloated over. It’s also organized—whether the alphabetic poem that forms the first chapter of the book was intended to depict the totality of destruction or was aimed at making the book easier to memorize—it’s not a first draft. This is no messy articulation of rage or grief that one later comes to regret. This is carefully planned out: evocative words were specifically chosen, images vividly drawn. 

On the whole, the Christian tradition has long struggled with how to read this book. And this is how it should be. How can a book that glorifies vengeance have a place in our sacred Scripture? Is it because God sanctifies violence against the oppressor? How do we know who that is and to what lengths we are allowed or exhorted to go? 

In class, we discussed these hesitations and pushed ourselves to consider what lies beneath the sentiments expressed in this book. Assyria’s record as bloodthirsty and violent foe is attested in visual and textual records from the ancient world, as well as in the biblical record. 

• Is violent rhetoric defanged if you do not have the power to enact your fantasies? 
• Is it a faithful step to revel in the gruesome downfall of an oppressor? 

It seems to me that these are good and faithful questions to ask about a book like Nahum. Frankly, I can sympathize with the perspective presented in the book—but luckily this is only a thought experiment for me. I appreciate the theological challenge of wrestling with its presence in the canonA canon is a general law or principle by which something is judged. The body of literature in the Old and New Testaments is accepted by most Christians as being canonical (that is, authentic and authoritative) for them. of Scripture. 

But equally important is the question of where we see ourselves in this text. How are you so sure which side you are on? Who prays this against you and your nation?

The phrase “daughters of Nahum” does not appear in the book. But in adopting this name, a group says two things: “We have fearsome power on our side” and “Shh, don’t worry, we’re just women.” (It’s the same move that the right-wing organizing group Moms for Liberty made with their name: who doesn’t love liberty … and moms?) 

Nahum is a book rooted in grievance, yes. But it was written by the vanquished, the humiliated, the powerless. This book does not belong to a right-wing fringe of the most powerful country on earth. It belongs to the victims of oppressive imperial power, to the disempowered and underestimated, whose hearts cry out in agony to be considered valuable even if, or perhaps precisely because they know they will never see the revenge they seek. 

Just because it is a nationalistic text does not mean that it belongs to Christian nationalism—and it does not mean that those of us who struggle to see the Bible’s nationalistic undercurrents should cede this text to bad-faith actors in our own contexts. Rather than setting it aside, let’s learn to read it better. Because the Bible is not a battleground—it is a record of the insights and inquiries of faithful communities. 

One of the great gifts of the canon of Scripture is how it keeps us locked into an ongoing consideration of its many voices. The Bible is a beautiful, messy, unwieldy record of human attempts to make sense of what God has done and is doing. It matters that people of faith understand the complexity of the canon of Scripture. 

A good place to start might be how the Bible itself wrestles with the Book of Nahum, preserving a book with the opposite take on vengeance right alongside it—the Book of Jonah. Please, let’s be savvier readers—not just scanning the pages of sacred text for bone-chilling language that we can use to sanctify our own grievances, but developing a sense of the texture and tension of the life of faith. Embracing this tension makes us more faithful readers of the Bible, not less. Becoming a reader of the Bible who is not afraid to engage with the disturbing corners of the canon—but also who is able to say, “I don’t know how to make sense of this,” will challenge us to take seriously the humanity of the people who wrote these texts down. 

It pushes us to examine the unsettling corners of our hearts—when, why and against whom would I ever say I desire vengeance? And then to give that to God. And the Christian communion on the whole is likewise a challenge: there are alarming corners to it as well, clearly. I struggle mightily with this—but I’m not ready to cede the good stuff to the worst stuff. 

This is about how we read. We can read in a variety of ways—devotionally, critically, with a presumption that the text warrants suspicion or grace—and many more. A mentor of mine recently told me that she urges her students to adopt a “hermeneutic of listening.” The texts in the Bible were composed, transmitted, and eventually written down at great effort (and expense) to many. The first debt we owe them is to listen to what they have to say. We are fractured as a people; remember the wise words of the writer Anne Lamott in her book Bird by Bird, who cautions that when God hates all the same people you do, it’s a pretty good sign you have created God in your own image. 

The communities whose struggles and foibles are preserved in the biblical record were certainly working through some serious questions in challenging times. We are also in trying times—and have been for so many years now. I don’t know when healing comes, and I confess that I fear things will get much worse before then, but I cling to a hope that healing is somewhere beyond where I can see at present. I do know that in the meantime, we can devote ourselves to building and rebuilding, to concern for community and mercyMercy is a term used to describe leniency or compassion. God's mercy is frequently referred to or invoked in both the Old and New Testaments. and justice, and to earnest, self-critical reflection on what we think the Bible says, is for, and does. First and foremost, it reveals God to us. As Lutherans, this remains firmly rooted in the life and ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus.