July 8, 2026
A reflection on the cross, ego, revenge, and the moral rebirth Ethiopia urgently needs
By Ewunetu Teshale
In Ethiopia, the cross is everywhere.
It hangs on the necks of children, mothers, fathers, priests, pastors, soldiers, merchants, politicians, civil servants, farmers, students, drivers, and businesspeople. It is carved into church walls, painted on homes, printed on clothes, carried in processions, kissed in prayer, and placed close to the heart by millions.
Ethiopia is one of the oldest Christian lands in the world. Estimates vary, but a large majority of Ethiopians identify with Christianity, including Orthodox, Protestant, Catholic, and other Christian communities. Some estimates place Christians at about two-thirds of the population. That means tens of millions of Ethiopians carry the cross, either physically on their chest or spiritually in their hearts.
They carry it to church.
They carry it to offices.
They carry it to marketplaces.
They carry it to political meetings.
They carry it to weddings and funerals.
They carry it to “equb/እቁብ” and “edir/እድር.”
They carry it to community meetings and social gatherings.
They even carry it to conflict zones, war fronts, and places of power.
But here is the painful question: if so many of us carry the cross, why do we still wound one another so deeply?
This reflection is written from a Christian moral imagination because the cross is one of the most visible symbols in Ethiopian public life. But Ethiopia is not only Christian. It is also home to millions of Muslims, followers of other faith traditions, and citizens who may not identify themselves through religion. Therefore, this article is not written to exclude them, preach superiority over them, or reduce Ethiopian moral life to one tradition.
The deeper question belongs to all of us: what must die in us so that others may live?
For Christians, that question is answered through the cross. For Muslims, it may be expressed through surrender to God, mercy, justice, restraint, humility, and compassion. For others, it may be expressed through conscience, human dignity, civic responsibility, and the common good. The language may differ, but the national need is shared.
The cross is not merely an ornament. It is not only a cultural symbol. It is not only a religious identity marker. The cross means death before it means decoration. It means surrender before it means status. It means crucifixion before it means celebration.
The Apostle Paul wrote, “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.” He also wrote that Christ died for all, and therefore all died, so that those who live should no longer live for themselves. This is the heart of Christian life: Christ died for us so that our old selfish life may die with Him, and a new life of love, truth, humility, justice, and peace may begin.
But when we look at our personal, family, social, economic, and political life, we must honestly ask: have we really died with Christ?
At home, we fight to dominate.
At work, we fight to be seen.
In business, we fight to defeat.
In politics, we fight to control.
In religious circles, we fight to be honored.
In communities, we fight to protect ego, tribe, status, wealth, title, and influence.
Some fights are open. Some are hidden. Some use words. Some use bullets. Some use gossip. Some use manipulation. Some use institutions. Some use money. Some use religious language. Some even use spiritual fear and superstition.
Yet the root is often the same: the old self refusing to die.
The Bible calls this old self “the flesh.” In Galatians 5, the works of the flesh are listed clearly: hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions, envy, and other destructive desires. These are not only private sins. They are social and national diseases. When hatred enters the home, the family breaks. When jealousy enters the workplace, institutions weaken. When selfish ambition enters politics, nations bleed. When factions enter the church, the witness of Christ is wounded.
We say we carry the cross, but too often we carry it with uncrucified hearts and selfish ambitions.
Had we all died, no one would have lived to kill.
If no one had lived in the old selfish way, no one would have been killed by hatred, revenge, greed, pride, envy, and the hunger for domination.
This may sound strange, but it is the deep paradox of the gospel: we begin to live only when we agree to die.
Not physical death.
Not national despair.
Not the death of hope.
Not silence in the face of injustice.
Rather, the death of ego.
The death of arrogance.
The death of revenge.
The death of tribal hatred.
The death of selfish ambition.
The death of greed.
The death of corruption.
The death of envy.
The death of the desire to destroy others in order to feel alive.
This idea is not only religious; it is also deeply human. Every society that has survived great moral collapse has had to learn, in one way or another, that revenge cannot build a nation.
After apartheid, South Africa did not become peaceful because every wound disappeared. It remained wounded. But the Truth and Reconciliation Commission created a national space where truth, confession, memory, and restorative justice could begin to confront the past. It was not perfect, and South Africa still struggles with many consequences of its history. Yet the moral idea was powerful: a society cannot heal by burying truth, nor can it live forever by revenge. It must find a way to remember without becoming permanently imprisoned by hatred.
Rwanda, after the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi, faced another terrible question: how can a society continue when killers and survivors must live again under the same sky? The gacaca courts were not without controversy, but they represented one attempt to bring justice closer to communities, allowing local participation in truth-telling, confession, accountability, and reintegration. Rwanda’s experience teaches that after massive human failure, silence alone cannot heal society. Truth must speak. Justice must act. Memory must be protected. But revenge must not become the new national language.
Germany, after the horror of Nazism and the Second World War, also had to confront the moral burden of the past. The German idea often described as Vergangenheitsbewältigung refers to the difficult work of coming to terms with the past. It means that a nation cannot simply move forward by pretending nothing happened. It must educate, remember, confess, rebuild institutions, and cultivate a public conscience against the return of evil.
These examples are not the same as Ethiopia’s experience. Every country has its own wounds, history, culture, religion, and spiritual landscape. But they teach a common lesson: no society heals when everyone insists on remaining innocent, victorious, superior, and unbroken. Healing begins when people, groups, institutions, and leaders become willing to die to the myths that keep them violent.
The myth that my group is always righteous.
The myth that my pain justifies every action.
The myth that my enemy has no humanity.
The myth that power proves truth.
The myth that revenge is justice.
The myth that silence is peace.
The myth that wearing a holy symbol is the same as living a holy life.
Ethiopia needs this kind of moral courage.
If we die in this way, then others can live. If leaders die due to ego, citizens can breathe. If citizens die of hatred, communities can heal. If religious people die from hypocrisy, faith can become credible. If businesspeople die of greed, the economy can serve society. If political actors die in revenge, the nation can begin to recover.
A cemetery is silent, but it teaches a lesson: the dead do not compete, envy, insult, manipulate, or kill. Of course, society is not called to become a cemetery. Ethiopia is called to live. But it cannot truly live while millions of egos remain armed, angry, and uncrucified.
The philosopher Thomas Hobbes once imagined human life without moral restraint and common order as a condition of fear, insecurity, and struggle. Whether or not one agrees with all his political philosophy, his warning remains relevant: when everyone fights only to preserve himself, life becomes unsafe for all. A society of self-protecting egos becomes a society of mutual destruction.
The Christian gospel offers an even deeper answer. It does not merely say, “Control your ego.” It says, “Crucify it.” It does not merely say, “Manage hatred.” It says, “Let hatred die.” It does not merely say, “Balance revenge.” It says, “Forgive, seek justice, and refuse to become what wounded you.”
That is the way of the cross.
But every Ethiopian conscience, religious or not, faces a similar moral test: can we discipline the self so that another human being can live, breathe, speak, work, worship, disagree, and flourish without fear?
What if our homes became places where ego dies and love lives?
What if our offices became places where jealousy dies and service lives?
What if our churches, mosques, and faith communities became places where pride dies and humility lives?
What if our political culture became a place where revenge dies and truth lives?
What if our regions, parties, institutions, and communities became places where selfish ambition dies and the common good lives?
Then we would understand what it means to live beyond the self.
For Christians, the cross does not ask us merely to attend church. It asks us to become new people. It does not ask us merely to wear a symbol. It asks us to surrender the old nature. It does not ask us merely to defend religion. It asks us to embody Christ.
A Christian who carries the cross but refuses to forgive has not understood the cross.
A Christian who carries the cross but humiliates the poor has not understood the cross.
A Christian who carries the cross but fuels hatred has not understood the cross.
A Christian who carries the cross but uses power to crush others has not understood the cross.
A Christian who carries the cross but destroys truth for personal advantage has not understood the cross.
The cross is the death of self-centered life.
This message begins with Christians because Christians must first examine the meaning of the cross they carry. But its moral appeal is wider. It speaks to every Ethiopian conscience: to priests, pastors, monks, sheikhs, imams, elders, parents, teachers, judges, soldiers, traders, farmers, scholars, students, politicians, voters, believers, and non-believers alike.
The fruit of a crucified life is visible. Galatians 5 does not only list the works of the flesh; it also lists the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
Imagine Ethiopia if these fruits became the language of public life.
Imagine politics with self-control.
Imagine business with goodness.
Imagine the media with truth and gentleness.
Imagine families with patience.
Imagine churches and mosques with humility.
Imagine communities with kindness.
Imagine government offices with faithfulness.
Imagine a nation where peace is not only negotiated by leaders but practiced by citizens.
That Ethiopia is possible, but not without death — the death of the old self.
Our problem is not only that we disagree. Disagreement is normal in any society. Our problem is that we often disagree without dying to hatred. We compete without dying to envy. We govern without dying to pride. We worship without dying to hypocrisy. We speak of peace while keeping weapons in our hearts.
The cross calls Christians to something deeper, but the moral challenge belongs to all.
It calls the father to die to domination.
It calls the mother to die of bitterness.
It calls the youth to die to hopeless anger.
It calls the leader to die for arrogance.
It calls the opposition to die to blind revenge.
It calls the rich to die of greed.
It calls the poor to die to despair.
It calls the intellectual to die for pride.
It calls the religious leader to die to self-glory.
It calls the citizens to die of indifference.
If Christians allow the cross to crucify ego, if Muslims allow surrender to God to humble the self, if followers of every tradition allow conscience to discipline power, and if citizens of every background allow the common good to rise above revenge, then Ethiopia can begin to breathe again.
If we keep fighting to live only for ourselves, no one may truly live. But if we agree to die to ourselves, then we can finally begin to live together.
This is the mystery of the cross. One Man died, and life was offered to many. If those many also die to old life, then homes can flourish, churches can flourish, mosques can flourish, communities can flourish, societies can flourish, and the country can flourish.
Ethiopia does not lack people who wear religious symbols. Ethiopia needs people who live the moral truth behind them.
A cross on the chest is beautiful.
A cross in the heart is powerful.
But a cross expressed in daily life can help heal a nation.
Had we all died, no one would have been killed.
Had we died to ego, hatred would have lost its soldiers.
Had we died to envy, division would have lost its fuel.
Had we died in revenge, violence would have lost its justification.
Had we died to selfish ambition, the common good would have found room to grow.
The way to life is still the way of moral surrender.
And the question before us is not only whether we carry the cross, wear a symbol, defend an identity, or belong to a tradition.
The question is whether we have allowed truth, humility, mercy, justice, and love to crucify the destructive self within us.
Editor’s Note: Views in the article do not necessarily reflect the views of borkena.com
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