The Theology of the Ethnocultural Empathic Turn: Towards the Balkan Theology of Political Liberation

Abstract

The theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn, on the general level, encompasses ethnocultural empathy, which, as a branch of social psychology, strives for a thorough understanding of the life context of those ethnically and culturally different from ourselves. In the context of Christian theology, this turn also embraces the turn reflected in Mt 15:21–28 (Mk 7:24–30), in which Jesus expands his missionary work from the locally based “House of Israel” into the global realm to include the entire “inhabited world”. In this essay, the theological discourse of ethnocultural empathic turn is embedded within a specific sociopolitical context, which brings us to the Balkans, i.e., the post-Yugoslav framework, where we discuss the legacy of Bishop Srećko Badurina and layperson Franjo Starčević. During the disintegration of the Yugoslav Federation, they vigorously resisted the dominant ethnonationalist-religious persuasions of the Croatian Catholic and Serbian Orthodox communities. They stood up for those who faced elimination due to the policy of ethnic cleansing. Today, both can serve as the foundation for the establishment of the theology in question, aiming at the development of the first post-Yugoslav contextual theology based on the political theology and the theology of liberation, capable of tackling the phenomenon of ethnoreligiosity as one of the most pressing problems plaguing this region.

1. Despite the Problem: Ethnoreligiosity

The relationship between ethnic and religious aspects of human life has a long history but has gained substantial academic attention only in recent decades, mainly due to conflicts that emerged from ethno-religious identities and which had significant social and political consequences (for the references in this chapter, see Sekulić 2022). This phenomenon was notably evident during the 1990s, following events in regions like the former Yugoslavia, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Palestine, Israel, Northern Ireland, Sri Lanka, Tibet, Rwanda, etc., (Fox 2004, p. 55; 2002, p. 143). Political scientist Jonathan Fox considered this type of conflict the most significant global security threat post-Cold War (Fox 2002, p. 143). His work underscores that such conflicts are characterized by a dangerous blend of ethnic and religious elements, yet despite numerous studies in the last three decades (numerous sources can be found on this topic, see, among others, Agbiboa 2013; Hassan and Umar 2014; Luo et al. 2011; Obashoro-John 2012; Gunatilleke 2018; Longman 2001), more nuanced approaches to the blend between religions and ethnicity remain elusive, especially in theological discussions. On the one hand, the links between ethnic and religious identities are historical and sociological in character, and examples include various groups and communities around the globe: Copts, Druze, Yazidis, Alawites, Judaism, Hinduism, Shintoism, Shenism, Confucianism, Taoism, the religious practices of South American, African, and Asian native communities, and various native practices worldwide (Pew Research Center 2012). On the other hand, the phenomenon of ethno-religion or ethnoreligion can have both positive and negative connotations, leading to confusion when exploring the complex relationship between ethnic and religious dimensions of social identities.

In my work, I introduced the concept of ethnoreligiosity from within the Christian theological perspective as a way to distinguish between ethno-religion (ethnoreligion), which signifies the cultural blend of an ethnic community with its religious practices, and ethnoreligiosity, which indicates a distortion or deviation from the Christian theological ideals of universal inclusion. Just as “politicking” refers to political manipulation driven by self-interest and represents a distortion of politics, so does ethnoreligiosity refer to manipulations of the relationship between ethnic and religious aspects of human life to serve specific ideological goals. Consequently, it acts as a distortion of the concept of ethno-religion (ethnoreligion or ethnic religion).

This line of thinking builds on the work of three scholars in particular: Jonathan Fox, Paul Mojzes, and Vjekoslav Perica (Fox 2002; Mojzes 1994, 2015; Perica 2002). At the same time, my conceptualization also draws more generally from the work of five scholars of nationalism and ethnicity, Anthony D. Smith, Benedict Anderson, Eric Hobsbawm, Siniša Malešević, and Vjeran Katunarić (Smith 1991, 1995, 1998, 2009; Anderson 2006; Hobsbawm 2012; Hobsbawm and Ranger 1992; Malešević 2013, 2019, 2006; Katunarić 1994). Most importantly, unlike ethnic religion (ethnoreligion), I use ethnoreligiosity to point to the negative attributes of the connections between ethnic and religious elements in a society. Most generally and beyond the confines of the Christian theological discourse, the notion of ethnoreligiosity points to ethnonational mythologies that blend theological and ideological ideas, religious and secular domains of social life, which then carry a propensity for conflict by removing the possibilities of religious and ethnic pluralism.

In my studies of the post-Yugoslav region, I am addressing ethnoreligiosity as a distinctive phenomenon that amalgamates the ethnonational and religious components to such a degree that the discourse of a religious institution becomes an integral part of an ethnonationalistic agenda, serving as its sacralizer. In principle, ethnoreligiosity emerges when the ethnototalitarian ideology is combined with ethnoclerical aspirations. The ethnototalitarian ideology is authoritarian and organicist in the attempt to control an entire area inhabited by an ethnic community fully, even when some parts of it might be part of another country (Jović 2017, pp. 283–323). The ethnoclerical aspirations that often characterize ethnoreligiosity entail the clergy that want to develop a one-minded, ethnically shaped church within an ethnically homogeneous country while trying to establish themselves as secular leaders (Perica 2002, pp. 214–17). Conceptualized in this way, ethnoreligiosity as a phenomenon should be understood in terms of its definition and manifestations, wherein the latter differ depending on the context in which this phenomenon emerges.

In terms of its definition, ethnoreligiosity includes an ethnonationalistic mythology which, when filtered through a religious discourse, starts generating religious feelings, keeping the impression among the people concerned that it is still faith-based, though the sense, in principle, rests solely on an ethnonationalistic myth. The ensuing ethnonationalist thought is presented as part of the religious institution’s mission, which, at least in the case of Christianity, erodes one of its fundamental postulates of “fides quaerens intellectum.” Dismissing forms of critical judgment, ethnoreligiosity leads the affected community down the path of fundamentalist irrationalism, including anti-rationalism (Metz and Moltmann 1995, p. 196). No longer a symbol and a means to liberation from the shackles of enslavement to nefarious worldly ideologies and practices, the cross, as Hans Küng said, becomes a mallet—a weapon of oppression and repression (Küng 1976, pp. 573–74). This, in turn, gives rise to the ideology of the memory of evil, arising from the recreation of historical memory and its religious justification to achieve some political goals (Jukić 1997, pp. 288–89). It also brings about the woundological narrative where an experienced trauma is not dealt with but constantly sustained so that the pain associated with it becomes a powerful means of social manipulation (Myss 1997, pp. 208–9).

In terms of its manifestations, ethnoreligiosity as a vulgarization here represents the disintegration of the central values of teachings and social concepts of Christian theological traditions. The mainstay of vulgarization is the factions within the religious institutions and their proponents who are, as some church fathers used to say, overcome by “habitus meretrius” (whorish habits) (Boff 2014, pp. 18–19). The representatives of religious institutions have a secular agenda, which they try to hide behind the religious rhetoric and religious elements. The outcome is the fusion of ethnonationalist and religious elements that brings about a complete ideologization of both of these aspects (Barry 2012, p. 29). The resulting identity is imbued with a sense of uniqueness at the historical level and chosenness in eschatological terms. This identity construct is thus consecrated as sacrosanct features are attributed to it. It becomes a kind of sociopolitical axiom, outside of which it is held that “there is no salvation”. Consequently, it arouses a feeling of repulsion, even radical intolerance, towards the other ethnically and religiously diverse groups and those who question the axiomatic nature of this identity. The ethnoreligious apologetics become aggressive, and this is best observed in their efforts at demonizing dissenters, creating an atmosphere in which the elimination of such persons is not seen as a crime but a part of “the holy mission”, aimed at cleansing the area of others who are seen as “evil spirits”. In the context of Christianity, this leads to an inversion where one’s own people take precedence in the eyes of God over all other peoples who believe in him. The result is that the liturgy, instead of being dedicated to God, gradually turns into political prattle (Cavanaugh 2005, pp. 28–29). The temples are erected to honor ethnicity rather than God, while the calendar of saints is filled with the idols of the sacralized ethnonationalistic discourse. Prelates, in turn, become the spokespersons for the theological content that is reduced, distorted, and falsified for the sake of ideological aspirations. Ultimately, the religious leaders equate their community with Christ and the dissenters with his executioners, seeing in them mortal enemies. The inversion is complete when the ethnoreligiosic community becomes an apparition—an entity that should represent a scandal for every true believer because its very existence brings people slavery instead of freedom, nothingness instead of hope, intolerant secular ideologies instead of salvation. In the end, from the Christian theological view, ethnorelgiosity becomes a worldview of death rather than life.

In the context of the former Yugoslavia, ethnoreligiosity concerns primarily the relationship between the Croatian Catholic and Serbian Orthodox communities with the ideologies of the Ustasha movement and the Chetnik-monarchist movement of Dragoljub Draža Mihailović, respectively. The fusion of the two ethnototalitarian ideologies with ethnoclerical aspirations has spawned the artificial identities of Croatcatholic and Serborthodox as the epitome of ethnoreligiosity that threatens the very survival of the Catholic Church in Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina and the Serbian Orthodox Church as relevant Christian communities. These sacralized Ustasha and Chetnik-monarchist ideological constructs were at the core of what led the Croatian Catholic and Serbian Orthodox communities to be regarded as sworn enemies in the context of World War II. Furthermore, the ethnonationalist impetus that continued to exist within both the Croatian and Serbian communities in the decades of communist Yugoslavia also quashed most of the ecumenical initiatives during the conflicts in the 1990s. In other words, the ethnonationalistic mythology bolstered the antagonism and war conflicts between the Croatian and Serbian peoples over the course of the twentieth century, thus providing fertile ground for ethnoreligiosity to overpower the Gospel message in the Croatian Catholicism and Serbian Orthodoxy alike and, as sacralized ethno-ideologies, to become deeply entrenched in two communities (see, e.g., Banac 2013; Radić 2016; Tomasevich 1975, 2001; Kolstø 2010; Mojzes 1994, 2015).

There are two proposals that emerge from the discussion above. First, since religions and religious leaders were at the heart of the ethnic relations and conflicts in the post-Yugoslav region, the political issues and the challenges of pluralism in this context cannot be resolved without religious stakeholders (e.g., Jakelić 2004). Second, it is increasingly evident that religious issues cannot be adequately resolved without the political stakeholders either because political leaders embrace the religious rhetoric to legitimize their ethnonationalist ideologies. The future efforts at dealing with the past ethnoreligious conflicts and developing the culture of memory that enables the constructive relations, between the Croatian and Serbian peoples especially in the areas that are ethno-religiously pluralistic, should include political, sociological, and religious elements. This is because, in the history of those ethnic communities, the church institutions have had an almost mythical role as the “raison d’etre” of their existence, which is why the church element is considered constitutive of nation-states defined as ethnically and religiously homogenous. Moreover, this fusion of the ethnic and religious aspects becomes even more prominent if we consider that many attempts at dividing these two ethnic groups had failed until religion entered the division equation (see, e.g., Kordić 2010, pp. 209–10, 242–44; Budak 1994, p. 57; 2011, pp. 7–8; Ćirković 2008, pp. 9–10; 1995, p. 36). Accordingly, whatever position is taken, attempts at normalizing the ethno-religious relations in the former Yugoslav societies will need to include the institution of the Catholic Church in Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina, and the Serbian Orthodox Church because without their transformation, their turn, no substantial improvement will be made. A meaningful theological endeavor, with its sights set on the ideals of a pluralistic social life, must begin by grappling with ethnoreligious issues. Its purpose is to unravel and demystify this phenomenon, disentangling the theological discourse from the grip of ethnonationalist narratives. This transition aims to ensure that purely secular ethnonationalist ideological agendas no longer guide or dictate theological ideas. And as elaborated in the upcoming section, in the context of Christian theology, ethnoreligiosity can be likened to an anti-Christlike force in its content and consequences.

2. Toward the Solution: Ethnocultural Empathy and Turn

2.1. Ethnocultural Empathy and Turn in Theory

With these historical and theological considerations in the background, we arrive to the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn, which also contributes to developing the first Yugoslav contextual theology rooted in the principles of political and liberation theologies. As such, the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn rests on the legacy of the new German political theology and the Latin American liberation theology, with which it shares the same goal of confronting social evils, though differing from them in some aspects.1 The similarity it shares with them concerns the elements of experience. The new German political theology relates to the experiences of the Nazi crimes.2 The theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn deals with the consequences of genocide and ethnic cleansing within the former Yugoslavian territory. In this context, then, the place that the new German political theology ascribes to the places of horror such as Auschwitz, Dachau, and Buchenwald, the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn in the post-Yugoslav context gives to Vukovar, Srebrenica, and Knin. On the other hand, the theology of the liberation of the Latin American type at its core advocates for the poor and opposes the “structural sin” that drives poverty. Similarly, the theology of the ethnocultural emphatic turn will advocate for those oppressed because of their ethnic and cultural affiliations while recognizing the supporters of ethnoreligiosity as “sinful structures.” In other words, what the change in the state of mind after the Nazi pogroms meant for the new German political theology, the turn following the inter-ethnic retaliation in the Yugoslav conflicts means now for this emerging theological discourse. Likewise, what Marxist analysis was for the Latin American theology of liberation, ethnocultural empathy is for this emerging post-Yugoslav theological discourse. In this sense, the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn becomes a part of the broader struggle put up by other political and liberation theologies.

Ethnocultural empathy as a term first appeared in the article “The Scale of Ethnocultural Empathy: Development, Validation, and Reliability.” The authors of the article claim that in the wake of sociopolitical changes in the world that increasingly pose ethnic, racial, and cultural problems, it is no longer enough to be oriented towards tolerance as a concept of overcoming differences, but they believe that it should be performed on a much deeper and more specific level (Wang et al. 2003, p. 221). This thought was the guiding light for the subsequent research, making ethnocultural empathy, as a branch of social psychology, a relevant field of study (See e.g., Rasoal et al. 2011a, 2011c; Tehrani et al. 2019; Tutkun 2019; Fleming et al. 2015; Cundiff and Komarraju 2008; Özdikmenli-Demir and Demir 2014; Vaughn and Johnson 2020; Albiero and Matricardi 2013; Wang et al. 2016). Discussing empathy at the level of developing sensibility for the reactions and functioning of other people—i.e., from the moment of direct immersion in the emotional states, thoughts, and behavior of others—a group of researchers realized that the concept itself is insufficient when dealing with the ethnic or cultural aspects of human life (Rasoal et al. 2011b, p. 568; 2011a, pp. 2–6; Wang et al. 2003). This pushed them to develop a specific field of empathy focused on ethnic and cultural differences. While empathy considers general parameters, ethnocultural empathy considers the individual ones, ensuring a more precise portrayal of the state of empathy between two ethnically and culturally different persons (Rasoal et al. 2011a, pp. 5–7; 2011b, p. 569; 2011c, p. 928; Wang et al. 2003). The concept of culture and the concept of ethnicity link empathy as a general concept and ethnocultural empathy as a more specific concept. The power of empathy, as a general concept, is used for countering outright hostile attitudes and animosities within a sociopolitical context and trying to improve the damaged relations between opposed ethnic groups and subcultures in a particular region.

Let us now consider three vital aspects in this respect: (1) the need to take into account the life context of another person, as the only way to fully understand a person is to understand their cultural background; (2) reducing one’s own narrow-mindedness by rejecting stereotypes and prejudices toward people who are ethnically and/or culturally different from ourselves; (3) in addition to theoretical knowledge, the need to have practical experience with another culture, as we cannot relate to somebody if we have not had any contact with them (Wang et al. 2003, pp. 221–23, 230–32). Overall, we could claim that ethnocultural empathy as a separate field of study significantly contributes to detecting a series of obstacles to empathy as a feeling developed towards a person from a different ethnic and cultural context. Furthermore, ethnocultural empathy is not something we are born with but a learned and practiced skill. The same can be said of hatred, which in one of its most obstinate forms—such as interethnic intolerance—becomes, figuratively speaking, practically hereditary. Apart from the change that ethnocultural empathy causes in a person, also of crucial importance for the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn is the change that similarly happens thanks to the political liberation potential of Christianity embodied in the symbolism of the turn.

It refers to the passage in Mt 15:21–28 on the faith of Syrophoenician woman in Jesus. This passage reiterates a well-known story from Jewish tradition, also contained in Mark (7:24–30), and in this respect, does not bring anything new (e.g., Still 1995). However, Matthew’s text highlights a point that is of crucial importance in this context. The entire narrative is focused on line 15:28, which makes it clear that even non-Jews are capable of having faith in Jesus (Morris 1992, p. 400; Allen 2013, p. 163; Long 1997, p. 177; Kgatle 2018). The turn that this line brings is the ultimate confirmation that God’s message of salvation, while given primarily to Jews, unequivocally applies to all others as well, regardless of ethnicity, status, religion, gender, and geographical and other differences that define them on a historical level (Morris 1992, p. 400; Allen 2013, p. 163; Long 1997, p. 177; Kgatle 2018). The profoundness and importance of this turn are further highlighted if we take into account that the woman from the very beginning of this passage (15:22) is no longer seen as a non-Jew or a Syrophoenician—the term Mark used to emphasize her non-belonging to the Jewish tradition and the world of the Jews in geographical terms—but a Canaanite (Blomberg 1992, p. 242; France 2007, pp. 590–91; Brett 2002, pp. 120–22; Kgatle 2018, pp. 601–2; Boles 1976, pp. 331–32; Still 1995). She belonged to the ethnic community, which in the minds of Jewish people evoked “the evil blood” of the past, as Canaanites were one of their biggest and oldest enemies—almost a synonym for the eternal, sworn, mortal enemies of Israel, both in terms of ethnicity and religion (Blomberg 1992, p. 242; France 2007, pp. 590–91; Brett 2002, pp. 120–22; Kgatle 2018, pp. 601–2; Boles 1976, pp. 331–32; Still 1995).

As Mookgo S. Kgatle points out, this was the ultimate goal of Matthew, who shows us, through the dramatic narrative that strikes at the core of worldly intolerance and manufactured differences, a renewed kingdom of Israel reborn by the action of Jesus of Nazareth where all historical differences no longer have the power to be categorical, but only descriptive (Kgatle 2018, pp. 602–3). By dissolving ethnocultural stereotypes, says Kgatle, the Canaanite joined the wise men from the East (Mt 2:1–2) in the de-ethnicization of the new-born king without devaluing the Jewish position on the pre-eminence of Israel in God’s plan of salvation (Kgatle 2018, pp. 606–7). She helped him to make himself known to the world as a messiah whose role is not constrained by historically established ethnic and cultural boundaries. The case of the Canaanite woman can be taken as a paradigm for dealing with the marginalization of people based on their ethnocultural background, which significantly helps in the deconstruction of this type of social exclusion and all that it entails (Kgatle 2018, pp. 595–96). Seen from this perspective, but in a more general sense, the term Canaanite could be taken as the term that embraces all those ethnically and culturally marginalized people who have been rejected due to some secular ideologies but who are, as such, at the very heart of the turn. The nature of the Nazarene’s heritage does not allow intolerance and hatred that have a metaphysical or dogmatic status and instead brings them down to the realm of human nature, unwilling to face its failings and weaknesses. Even though they strongly impact our history, they have no existential significance in God’s plan. Of course, we should also keep in mind that today’s thoughts on ethnoculture include terms that did not exist in the times of Jesus, and we should take into account all the “technical deficiencies” that arise in applying contemporary thought to the experiences of the first century. Nonetheless, the ethnocultural problem discussed here is, so to speak, as old as the Bible itself. The hermeneutic logic arising from this passage of Matthew helps us to analyze and resolve disdain or contempt towards ethnically and culturally different individuals and groups within the framework of theological discourse. The case of the Canaanite woman provides the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn a much-needed New Testament foothold for strengthening the concept of ethnocultural empathy, building a unique interdisciplinary research basis for the establishment of the theological discourse capable of resisting and dealing with the ethnoreligiosic phenomenon and everything it represents on the ethnic and religious level of human life.

2.2. Ethnocultural Empathy and Turn in Practice

Let us now take this theological discourse from a general, theoretical level onto the practical level in a specific sociopolitical context and discuss the legacy of Catholic bishop od Šibenik Srećko Badurina3 and Catholic layperson Franjo Starčević4 in the region of the former Yugoslavia. In an exceptional way, their character and work truly reflect and witness the very essence of the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn, making them prime examples among prelates and laypersons. Suppose we hold it to be true that saints are role models who, as God’s allies, guide people on how to stay on the path to the Kingdom despite all life’s adversities. In that case, no matter how dogmatically controversial that might be, Badurina and Starčević are saints, and primarily, at the least, those of a political type. Far from being a pejorative term, this characterization is at the core of the proclamation. If, as Jon Sobrino claims, God unequivocally stood on the side of the oppressed when entering history and challenged the ideologies of social evils to the point of his death, then the political dimension is unquestionably established as a new dimension of God’s holiness (Sobrino 1988, p. 83). Therefore, “political saints” are not a particular type of saint but the kind of servants of God who, through their actions, repeat the practice of the Kingdom woven into the life of Jesus of Nazareth (Sobrino 1988, p. 83). They strive to confirm the closeness of God himself and his concern for the world through their liberating engagement in the spirit of the Gospel (Sobrino 1988, p. 83). The goal in this sense, claim Pedro Casaldáliga and José Maria Vigil, is not to save the individual from the world through this type of holiness, nor for him to be saved in the world itself, but to save the world itself (Casaldáliga and Vigil 1994, p. 175). Precisely for this reason, “political sanctity” is not an option but a necessity if, of course, Jesus’s message is taken in its entirety rather than its reduced version because the political aspect is the most concrete way of bringing the essence of salvation closer to those most vulnerable by advocating for them in the same way the Nazarene himself did in his time (Sobrino 1988, p. 83).

This is precisely what Badurina did during his service as Bishop of Šibenik in the first half of the nineties when he urged the extreme pro-Serb and pro-Croat political factions to exercise restraint. As the war was raging, he constantly called for an end to violence and advocated for peace in line with his episcopal motto, “He is our peace” (Eph 2:11–22), and his thought that the church should follow the path of fulfilling Jesus’ messianic role, reflected in love for humans that goes to the very end, to the very death if needed (John 13:1) (S. Badurina 1997, p. 17; 1999, pp. 9–11; 1989, pp. 14–16; Duda 2017, p. 15). From the first days of the inter-ethnic strife between the Croatian and Serbian communities, he kept proving these two points. He visited the conflict areas, insisting on dialogue and understanding, and several times he narrowly escaped death (S. Badurina 1999, pp. 268–70; 1997, p. 157; A. Badurina 2017, p. 55). It was particularly critical in April 1991 when the pro-Serbian rebels pointed a rifle at him (S. Badurina 1999, pp. 268–70; 1997, p. 157; A. Badurina 2017, p. 55). In July of the same year, he was shot at by the same group of people (S. Badurina 1999, p. 273). However, in all of this, Badurina remained true to his episcopal mission, not allowing discouragement to overwhelm him while always being aware of his role as bishop and respecting the long tradition of Serbian Orthodoxy in his diocese despite the adverse sociopolitical circumstances. While attempting to visit his parishes in the parts of the Šibenik region occupied by the pro-Serbian forces in the fall of 1991, he tried to explain to the newly established authorities there that he was neither a member of the Croatian government nor a representative of the army and police, but a bishop in charge of prayer and faith (S. Badurina 1999, p. 273). He told them that he, as such, represented only Jesus Christ and no one had the right to put obstacles in the way of Christ, as his mission concerned only church rather than politically defined territories (S. Badurina 1999, p. 273). Badurina further argued that the Church was not sent into the world to create or destroy states but to live with its faithful and contribute to peace and orderly life despite secular and historical borders and limitations (S. Badurina 1999, p. 265). The probability that he might suffer the consequences due to such engagements did not alarm him in the least because in those situations, as he claimed, there was no time to think about personal safety but only about the psychology of fear that drove people to arm themselves (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 54–60). In an effort to overcome that fear, he often spoke with people in high social and political positions to solve this problem (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 54–60).

He also tried to persuade his fellow citizen, the Serbian Orthodox Bishop of Dalmatia Nikolaj, to join forces to end the conflict (S. Badurina 1997, p. 162; 2012, p. 344). He proposed that they visit the areas around Šibenik where the conflict between the Serbian and Croatian communities broke out and show people how to reject violent instincts by following their example and thus increase the potential for ecumenical action and peace (S. Badurina 1997, p. 162; 2012, p. 344). However, although his efforts had not been very successful, Badurina kept encouraging his Croatian Catholic fellow citizens to refrain from revenge and the destruction of the Serbian Orthodox heritage (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 75–76; 2019, p. 25; 2012, pp. 59–60). He stressed that any generalization of guilt should be avoided because there was a significant difference between those who manipulated others and those who had been manipulated (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 75–76; 2019, p. 25; 2012, pp. 59–60). “There will be a future,” he claimed, “and we will live in it and face everything we have done.” “That is why,” he said, “we must not allow ourselves to fall into the spiral of violence” (S. Badurina 2019, p. 27; 1997, pp. 75–76, 87). In that sense, by following the Christian spirit, we should be a bright spot in dark times, no matter how dark they may be (S. Badurina 2019, p. 27; 1997, pp. 75–76, 87). He usually tested his compatriots’ and fellow citizens’ limits and patience in these efforts. One such episode happened in 1993, the most challenging war year for Šibenik and the Šibenik area. That year, in January, he invited the Serbian Orthodox priest and ensured conditions for holding a liturgy on Orthodox Christmas in the middle of the Šibenik’s old town, claiming that he, as a bishop and as a Christan, could not be pleased that the Serbian Orthodox community was not able to celebrate its Christmas as the Croatian Catholic community could (S. Badurina 2019, pp. 38–40; 1997, pp. 108, 111, 114, 148).

No less dramatic was the situation when, barely ten days after the military operation “Storm” in August 1995—after the Croatian army drove away the Serbian army from a large part of its national territory that until then had been part of the Parastate of the Republic of Serbian Krajina—Badurina condemned the looting, burning, killing, and persecution of the Serbian population (S. Badurina 1999, pp. 365–66; 1997, pp. 260–61). He called this a crime and a stain on the Croatian people and the Catholic faith, claiming that God condemned these crimes unequivocally (S. Badurina 1999, pp. 365–66; 1997, pp. 260–61). “We are coming back, and our neighbors are running away. Have we lost our common sense again” (S. Badurina 2019, p. 143)? He insisted that even though Croatian Catholics had been mistreated by the pro-Serbian forces in some areas of Croatia for years, this should in no way affect the respect for Serbian Orthodox believers themselves, their human rights, and religious freedom (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 107, 172; 1999, pp. 223–24). He claimed that people should never find themselves in Cain’s position when God asked him, “Where is your brother?” and he, aware of the crime he had committed, refused to answer (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 107, 172; 1999, pp. 223–24). For Badurina, evil is a moral rather than an ontological category, and what mattered was what we did as individuals under pressure and whether we were able to resist evil in times of trouble, no matter how justified our anger might have seemed (S. Badurina 1999, pp. 109–11). Many people criticized him because of his views, accusing him of a lack of patriotism and compassion for the victims, but Badurina remained faithful to the principle he held since the very beginning of the war in Yugoslavia when nobody could have even imagined how cruel it would be (S. Badurina 1997, p. 148). He insisted that whatever he had said and done would have to, at any cost, withstand the criticism of those who would evaluate his work and that of his associates in twenty years (S. Badurina 1997, p. 148). But again, these decisions took their toll on Badurina because he felt both pain and sadness, and anger often overcame him (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 256, 282). However, with Christ-like persistence, he still claimed that although exasperation sometimes overwhelmed him, he could not allow himself to proclaim his destiny instead of Christ’s (S. Badurina 1997, pp. 256, 282). “Then again, I also felt the difference between my inner mood and the words I said to others. But could I proclaim myself? Proclaiming the cross of Christ was imperative”(S. Badurina 1997, p. 282). This last sentence arguably best defines the essence of Badurina’s life, mainly while serving as bishop, which makes him one of the most outstanding church dignitaries who ever lived in the post-Yugoslav territories (See, e.g., Duda 2017, p. 19; Bogović 2017, p. 6; Ivas 2017, pp. 22–25).

Equally important, though different, was the commitment of Franjo Starčević, who was almost 70 at the time of the bloody disintegration of the Yugoslav Federation that thoroughly transformed him through his surroundings and his surroundings through him in its aftermath. Although his activities were mostly limited to his homeland of Gorski Kotar, his influence, like Badurina’s, surpassed regional borders. He is an exceptional example in the entire post-Yugoslav area, although due to ethnototalitarian and ethnoclerical—i.e., ethnoreligiosic influence—the current state of mind in this region is far from showing appreciation for his legacy. Yet, this in no way minimizes the importance of Franjo’s actions. At the very first signs of the inter-ethnic strife between the Serbian and Croatian communities, he stood up against the escalation of the conflict, trying to offset the war hysteria with the idea of active peace. Franjo argued that this type of peace did not mean passivity, i.e., non-participation in the war, but on the contrary, active involvement in it while working on its suppression (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 29; Glad 2017, pp. 29–38). He claimed he found inspiration in his faith in Christ—the anchor he held onto in life’s troubles (Glad 2017, pp. 51–52). Even when he seemed to lose it, it constantly pushed him forward and urged him not to give up (Glad 2017, pp. 51–52). Aside from Christ himself, whom he held to be the only measure of all worldly things, his role models were also Francis of Assisi, Pope John Paul II, and the Croatian Cardinal Franjo Kuharić, whose teachings he advocated (Glad 2017, p. 181). Inspired by them, he called for refraining from hatred, peaceful resolution of conflicts, and preserving good neighborly relations with Serbian neighbors who refused to join the aggression against Croatia but whose lives were threatened because of their ethnicity (Glad 2017, p. 181). His two visits to the Serbian village of Jasenak are the best evidence of the decisiveness of this faith-motivated attitude.

The first was initiated in October 1991 in the Crisis Headquarters in Delnice when he presented his visit plan. He wanted to check what was happening, even though cut trees had already blocked the roads, and the armed populace was supposedly ready in anticipation of conflict (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 45; Glad 2020, p. 61). As expected, his proposal was first met with stubborn opposition, but Franjo kept insisting, arguing that it was simply impossible that the war psychosis had utterly wiped out the decades of good neighborly relations in such a short period (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 45). He dismissed as “fake news” the reports about the Serbian attacks on the Croatian community and claimed that Serbs were barricaded in their villages because they, too, were afraid of being attacked (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 45). The risk of this undertaking was significant, but Franjo was tireless. He argued that the current stalemate was undeniably leading to conflict while this endeavor of his could contribute to calming tensions (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 45). He further maintained that the stake of the Croatian side was minimal because he was almost seventy years old, and it would be no great harm if he were killed, while his associates would then certainly know how things stood (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 45). This visit was arranged in advance without security guarantees (Glad 2020, p. 61). Luckily, despite the great threat, it ultimately proved very successful because the representatives of the local community of Jasenak assured him that they had no intention of starting a war unless the other side started it first (Glad 2020, p. 61). “It was a promising message that could be worked on,” said Franjo upon his return to Delnice (Glad 2020, p. 61).

The second visit was in the spring of 1992 when the Serbo-Croatian conflict was already in full swing, and all hope for a peaceful resolution of the inter-ethnic conflict had failed. Nevertheless, this did not discourage Franjo. Quite the opposite, he was even more determined to make a new, this time even riskier, move of going to Jasenak on his own without official prior notice (Glad 2017, pp. 48, 347, 390; Horvat et al. 2003, p. 46). He walked kilometers on an unsafe forest path over and between piled logs to reaffirm the previously concluded peace and prevent the conflict—“Nothing can stop me on my way” (Glad 2017, pp. 48, 347, 390; Horvat et al. 2003, p. 46). That move, argued Franjo, was not made out of extreme courage but out of boundless trust in Christ and the hope that things could and should be different (Glad 2017, pp. 48, 390). It helped him overcome his fear and accept the fact that he could even be killed at any moment without anyone ever finding out what happened to him for weeks, months, or maybe even years (Glad 2017, pp. 48, 390). For two long days, his family, friends, and colleagues waited for his return in dramatic anticipation when he finally returned with the news that the mission was successful again (Glad 2017, pp. 289, 347). The success of this visit was probably also due to the fact that Franjo and his colleagues had managed to persuade the Serb-controlled Yugoslav People’s Army to disarm in Delnice a couple of months earlier (Horvat et al. 2003, pp. 8, 36, 49–426; Glad 2017, pp. 331–32; 2020, p. 61). Thus, following all that, and especially his second visit to Jasenak, the obstacles to active peace fell like dominos. The representatives of Serbs and Croats from the village of Tuk and the surrounding places of Delnica, Jasenak, Dražnice, Gomirje, Ravna Gora, Vrbovsko, and Mrkopalj met in September 1992 in Tuk (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 29; Glad 2017, pp. 29, 229, 232). They agreed that they would no longer fear the conflict between each other but actively work to prevent it and provide security to all those who lived in the area of Gorski Kotar, regardless of their national or religious affiliations (Horvat et al. 2003, p. 29; Glad 2017, pp. 29, 229, 232). It was these actions that laid the foundations for active peace, and Gorski Kotar, contrary to many who wished for and called for carnage, earned the title of “Oasis of Peace”—a shelter ruled by human values rather than the rules of war (Horvat et al. 2003, pp. 8, 36).

Due to his peace-making efforts and non-nationalistic commitment, in the early nineties, Franjo was, just like Badurina, attacked by ethnonationalists and their supporters who called him a traitor (Glad 2017, pp. 44, 47, 214–16). Aware that warrior consciousness sees peacekeepers as a weakness that needs to be eradicated, he tried to change that attitude by proposing to the Croatian authorities that he visit the conflict areas, convinced that Croatia should not allow the spirit of peace from Gorski Kotar to remain localized (Glad 2017, pp. 199, 201, 203, 214, 310). He wanted peacemakers rather than warriors to be hailed as heroes in Croatian society, where humanity, resistance to evil, and empathy would be the only yardstick for history and historical relations (Glad 2017, p. 310). Guided by this thought, together with his colleagues, Franjo founded the “School of Peace,” which opened in the summer of 1994 (Glad 2017, pp. 196–99, 232, 234–35, 289, 347; Horvat et al. 2003, p. 435). About fifty children of Croatian, Serbian, and Bosniak ethnicity gathered in Mrkopalj for a week of learning and socializing with each other (Glad 2017, pp. 196–99, 232, 234–35, 289, 347; Horvat et al. 2003, p. 435). It was conceived as a universal educational platform aimed at improving the quality of human life and well-being, and it functioned as such for a while (Glad 2017, pp. 196–98; Horvat et al. 2003, p. 436). However, the subsequent period near the end of the war was not very favorable to Franjo’s peace-making visions, and the “School” gradually faltered, despite its many valuable initiatives such as peace-making programs, tolerance development, civic awareness raising, non-violence education, student exchange, peace conferences, and ecumenical dialogues (Glad 2017, pp. 196–98; Horvat et al. 2003, p. 436). As the last attempt at reviving the school in the late 2000s, Franjo offered the Croatian Catholic Episcopate to completely take over the “School” and build an ecumenical center in its foundations (Glad 2017, pp. 273, 395–400). But the church officials, just like those of the state, largely ignored Franjo in such a way as to assure him of what he, in the most painful way, had already suspected in the years before his death—that the dominant ideologies that emerged from ethnic cleansing and war crimes did not need peace (Glad 2017, pp. 395–400). Although his biggest project did not materialize, Franjo’s name remained a synonym for indefatigable peacemaking, for empathy and constructive criticism that does not succumb to fleeting hysteria but is instead guided by the lasting value of Christ’s practice reflected in the unconditional commitment to those weaker (Glad 2017, pp. 5, 6, 331, 347, 415; Horvat et al. 2003, pp. 43–46). In this specific case, those were the Orthodox Serbs who were the victims of both the pro-Serbian politics and rejection by their Catholic Croatian neighbors.

3. Potential Result: Forging a New Theological Discourse

The theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn, in the same way as the phenomenon of ethnoreligiosity, is conceived broadly as a constructive theoretical framework that can sustain specific, contextual content. This case concerns the Croatian Catholic and Serbian Orthodox communities, including a portrait of two leading figures, Srećko Badurina and Franjo Starčević. In initiating this theological discourse, I considered other regions globally affected by (ethno)national-religious deviation, such as Rwanda and Sri Lanka. However, the primary focus of the research is entirely on the area of the former Yugoslavia. Efforts are made to provide an outline for an emerging theological concept set to explore this region’s sociopolitical and socio-religious aspects and offer practical solutions to the challenges with which the region still grapples. While the successful application of this theory rests on other parameters and relations in the region, the combination of ethnocultural empathy and turn embodied in the character and work of Badurina and Starčević could prove effective in the framework of ex-Yugoslavia. If we study the ethnic map of the former Yugoslavia before and after the war of the 1990s, we will see that the areas where these two lived and worked, unlike many other regions, largely retained their ethnic heterogeneity. Although it may be small, this is evidence that the ideals of the ethnocultural empathic turn are worth exploring in the broader global context since so many societies face the radicalization of religion and its inroads into the political sphere as one of the strongholds of secular ideologies. Perhaps countering the phenomenon of ethnoreligiosity with the theology of the ethnocultural empathic turn in the post-Yugoslav framework may not seem to have a profound impact. Still, if this method proves successful, it may spur the quest for some new “Badurinas” and “Starčevićs” in many parts of the world, which could genuinely lead to ethnocultural empathy and turn—a positive change and, perhaps, a game changer in coping with sociopolitical and socioreligious issues.