I am a Quaker. And as everyone knows, Quakers, for 300 years

Hear the steadfast words of Bayard Rustin, prophet of peace and servant of justice: “I am a Quaker. And as everyone knows, Quakers, for 300 years, have, on conscientious ground, been against participating in war. I was sentenced to three years in federal prison because I could not religiously and conscientiously accept killing my fellow man.” These words flow with quiet strength, born not of cowardice, but of unyielding courage. They speak of a man who chose chains over bloodshed, prison over betrayal of conscience, and who thereby bore witness to the eternal law of love.

The origin of this saying is rooted in Rustin’s Quaker faith. For three centuries, the Quakers, or the Religious Society of Friends, had walked a path of nonviolence, refusing to take up arms, even when the world raged with war. They believed that every human being carries within them the light of God, and thus to kill one’s neighbor is to strike against the divine itself. During the Second World War, when the United States called upon its young men to fight, Rustin refused. For this refusal—anchored in faith and conscience—he was sentenced to years in federal prison. His defiance was not against his country, but against the idea that justice could ever be secured through the killing of his fellow man.

The meaning of Rustin’s words is that true courage is not always found on the battlefield, but sometimes in the quiet refusal to betray one’s soul. He reminds us that the power of conscience is greater than the power of guns, and that fidelity to principle often requires sacrifice. Many called him unpatriotic, a coward, even a traitor. Yet in truth, his act was one of the highest forms of patriotism: loyalty to the belief that freedom and justice are empty if they demand the destruction of humanity’s sacred bond.

Consider the story of Mohandas Gandhi, who also refused violence though the weight of empire pressed upon his people. When many urged him to meet British bullets with blood, he instead called for nonviolent resistance, for truth-force, for the power of conscience over arms. Like Rustin, Gandhi was imprisoned, mocked, and reviled, yet his refusal to kill became the weapon that freed a nation. Such examples reveal the hidden strength of nonviolence: it may appear powerless, but it shakes empires, because it unmasks the violence of the oppressor without mirroring it.

Rustin’s stand also points us to a deeper truth: that prison is not always a place of shame, but sometimes of witness. By accepting three years in confinement, he declared to the world that his conscience could not be bought by threats or broken by punishment. In doing so, he joined a long line of prophets and reformers who bore chains for the sake of truth. His imprisonment, rather than silencing him, amplified his message: that peace is not the absence of war, but the refusal to participate in killing, even when commanded by the powerful.

The lesson for us is this: conscience must never be surrendered, not to governments, not to armies, not to fear of punishment. Each of us must listen for that inner voice, the still small flame that guides us toward justice. For Rustin, that voice said, “Do not kill.” For others, it may say, “Defend the innocent,” or “Speak against injustice.” What matters is not that we all hear the same call, but that when conscience speaks, we have the courage to obey it, even at the cost of comfort, reputation, or freedom.

What, then, must we do? We must cultivate the strength to stand for peace in a world that glorifies violence. We must defend the right of every person to act according to conscience, even when their path differs from ours. We must teach our children that true heroism is not always in wielding the sword, but often in laying it down. And we must labor to build a society that honors those who resist war not as traitors, but as keepers of humanity’s deepest truth.

Therefore, let Rustin’s words be preserved as a lamp for all generations: that to kill is easy, but to refuse to kill is divine. Let his example remind us that peace is not passive, but active, requiring courage equal to any soldier’s. And let us vow that when history asks what we fought for, we may answer not with tales of conquest, but with testimony that we stood for the sanctity of life, even when the world demanded blood.