I had been scrambling to publish a sweep of US history by July 4 but didn't make it. I might still publish it as it was almost finished. Here is another segment in addition to other excerpts I've posted:
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Jesus didn’t run a political party. Your pastor shouldn’t either.
Freedom to Impose
When we talk about religious liberty in America, the story often starts with the Pilgrims and Puritans. We know them as those very serious, buckled-shoe figures of Thanksgiving lore. We imagine them as holy seekers of freedom, fleeing oppression in England to build a new society where everyone could worship God freely.
But the real story is a little more ironic – and a very important mirror for today.
The Puritans didn’t come to the New World because they loved religious freedom. It’s actually quite funny to think that. They came because they couldn’t take over England.
They had tried. Throughout the 1600s, Puritan reformers fought to “purify” the Church of England. They desperately tried to rid it of anything that smelled Catholic – vestments, ceremonies, bishops, holidays. Some Puritans worked within the system. Others left it entirely. They briefly took over Parliament and even put a king to death!
But when the monarchy was restored, the dream of remaking England as a Puritan nation collapsed. So, they packed up their theology and set sail across the Atlantic.
In Massachusetts, they finally had their shot. And what did they do with their newfound freedom? They imposed it on everyone.
Puritan Massachusetts was not a land of religious tolerance. It was a theocracy – at least in theory. A theocracy is the idea that God is ruling directly rather than any human or group of humans. The fatal flaw with this concept, of course, is that someone has to interpret what God says. The Bible must be interpreted, as the tens of thousands of little church groups around the country prove. For some reason, they can’t seem to agree on what the Bible means.
Any notion of a theocracy is thus a farce. Ask yourself who is interpreting the Bible. That’s who’s really ruling.
In Puritan New England, church attendance was mandatory. Dissent was criminalized. The idea wasn’t to build a place where everyone could follow God as they understood Him. It was to build a place where everyone followed the Puritan understanding of God.
“A city on a hill,” yes. But only if you agreed with the sermon. Disagree, and you were out. Or worse.
Roger Williams believed in freedom of conscience. He argued that the government should not dictate religious practice, and he insisted that Native Americans had legitimate land rights. This was a deeply unpopular stance in Puritan Massachusetts even though it seems rather Christ-like. From a theological standpoint, we may disagree with some of his views. But politically, his vision was clear: the state should not control a person’s faith.
And, actually, no one can. Even God lets us decide. Romans 1 makes this clear when it says that God “gives people up” to their sinful desires (Rom. 1:28). Otherwise, God would be the author of sin. If God is dictating everything that happens, then he would be a rapist, a child-molester, and a serial killer. No, God allows sin. He doesn't dictate it.
The Puritans banished Williams from the Massachusetts Bay Colony. He fled into the woods and eventually founded Rhode Island. It was the first colony built on the principle of religious freedom. There, not only could various Christian denominations worship freely, but Jews and even atheists were welcome too. It was radical for its time.
And it totally went against the Puritan way.
Anne Hutchinson dared to interpret the Bible for herself. A woman! Imagine that! She led Bible studies. She criticized the clergy for preaching works over grace. She was exiled, too. And even after her death, Massachusetts leaders expressed relief that God had “judged” her.
Mary Dyer was a Quaker. She didn't leave. They put her to death.
The story of America’s founding isn’t just one of escape from religious oppression. It’s also a story of how quickly the oppressed can become the oppressor.
And the Puritans weren’t alone. Other colonies carried their own religious baggage. Maryland was founded as a haven for Catholics. But Protestants quickly took over and passed laws punishing those who observed Catholic Mass.
Pennsylvania, founded by Quaker William Penn, offered a broader tolerance to Christians and even some non-Christians, but still drew clear boundaries. New Amsterdam (later New York) was initially founded under the Dutch Reformed Church. It did offer some economic opportunity to Jews and Baptists – but not much patience.
Virginia and Georgia were Anglican strongholds, closely tied to the Church of England. Accordingly, there, dissenters like the Puritans could be fined or jailed. Each colony, in its own way, wrestled with the tension between religious conviction and civil freedom. Some loosened their grip over time. Others didn’t.
By the time the Constitution was written, Americans had over a century of religious conflict behind them – persecutions, executions, riots, bans, and backlash. Europe had seen even worse. The Thirty Years' War (1618–1648) had devastated Central Europe, as Catholic and Protestant forces fought for dominance in a brutal religious tug-of-war. After all that bloodshed, one lesson stood out: when religion and government mix, people suffer. And more often than not, faith itself is corrupted in the process.
That’s why religious liberty in America wasn’t just about avoiding persecution. It was about avoiding power. It was about making sure no one version of faith could use the government to enforce its will – and in the end oppress others. The lesson wasn’t just to escape tyranny. It was to make sure we didn’t become it.
A Wall Between
The First Amendment was a boundary. It was clear, deliberate, and hard-earned. After centuries of religious warfare and persecution, both in Europe and the colonies, the Founders drew a line. Government would not establish a religion. And religion would not control the government.
As mentioned in the previous chapter, the Continental Congress would not have approved the Constitution without the immediate promise of a Bill of Rights. The First Amendment reads: “No law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”
In those few words, the Founders rejected the idea of a national church. They would bar religious tests for office. They made space for Methodists and Muslims, Quakers and Catholics, deists and dissenters alike. All would enjoy equal dignity under the law.
Some argue today, “Sure, that’s what they wrote, but they really meant ‘Christian.’” The truth is more complicated. The Founders were thinking a variety of things. And yes, some may have had Christianity in mind. But what they agreed on and wrote down is what became law. And what they passed is what governs us now. Unless we change it.
Thomas Jefferson made the principle vivid in 1802, when he wrote to the Danbury Baptist Association. Baptists in Connecticut were worried. They were a minority in a state with an entrenched Congregationalist establishment. Jefferson assured them the federal government had no intention of privileging any denomination. Instead, he said, the First Amendment had built “a wall of separation between Church & State.”
This wall wasn’t designed to keep religion out of public life. It was meant to keep religion from forcing itself on anyone. It wasn’t hostility toward religion. It was protection from religion.
James Madison, another architect of the Constitution, made this clear. He believed religious pluralism was essential to liberty. Pluralism means different religions can coexist peacefully in the same society. It doesn’t require believing all religions are equally true. It just means the government stays neutral. If religions are the raisins, the government is the oatmeal. It holds them all without favoring one.
Madison opposed government funding for religious institutions, even in the form of “non-denominational” chaplaincies, because he feared the long-term effects of entanglement. When government takes sides in religion – even subtly – it usually corrupts both.
None of this meant faith had no place in the public domain. It meant that the government would stay neutral, not that it would be against religion. Churches have always shaped moral conscience. Religious leaders helped lead the abolition movement, the Civil Rights Movement, and more. But there’s a difference between moral influence and political control.
The church is not meant to wield the sword. The government is not meant to pick a creed. When the two blur their roles, history shows us what happens next: oppression, corruption, and a loss of integrity on both sides.
The wall between church and state isn’t a rejection of religion. It’s how religion stays free. It’s how democracy stays safe. And when either side climbs over that wall, it’s not faith that wins. It’s power.
A Century of Peace
For nearly two centuries after the Constitution was ratified, the United States tried to keep a careful balance. Religion was respected, even revered, but not officially enforced. Faith was a major force in American life. But it wasn’t mandated by the state. That was the whole point.
From the beginning, American public life was saturated with religious language. Presidents invoked the Almighty in inaugural addresses. Congress opened sessions with prayer. The calendar honored Sunday as a day of rest.
No one was being forced to be religious, but these practices reflected a population that was overwhelmingly Christian – especially Protestant. In many towns, Christianity was simply the air people breathed. That reality shaped public life, but it didn’t define the government’s authority.
No national denomination was ever enshrined.
Religious liberty was a real (if imperfect) commitment. Baptists and Methodists could thrive alongside Presbyterians and Catholics. Jewish communities took root and grew. And in most eras, the courts held the line. Religion could shape personal life and public conscience, but it couldn’t be imposed by law.
There were tensions, of course. Anti-Catholic riots broke out in the 1800s. The Ku Klux Klan in the 1920s opposed not just Black Americans but also Catholics and Jews. Religious minorities often had to fight for recognition and equal treatment. When John F. Kennedy ran for president in 1960, many voters feared his Catholicism would make him a puppet of the Pope. JFK famously countered with a speech affirming the separation of church and state: “I do not speak for my church on public matters – and the church does not speak for me.”
There were some religious additions to national symbols. But they were more cultural than theological. “In God We Trust” was added to paper currency in 1956. Why? Because of a revival? No, because of the Cold War. “Under God” was inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954. Why? As a way to distinguish the U.S. from the atheistic Soviet Union. These additions reflected the era’s religious tone, but they didn’t create a national church or compel belief.
During this long stretch, religious life in America didn’t just survive without government enforcement. It flourished. Churches multiplied. New denominations emerged. Missionary societies expanded globally. Faith-based institutions launched hospitals, colleges, and charities. Revival movements drew massive crowds from the Second Great Awakening of the 1800s to the Billy Graham crusades of the 1950s.
Why did religion thrive? In part, because people were free to choose it. When faith is not coerced, it can persuade. When it is not armed with state power, it can speak with moral authority.
The genius of the early American experiment wasn’t that it removed religion from public life. It’s that it gave religion room to breathe. Faith could inform the conscience without controlling the sword. And for almost 200 years, that balance has held.
Were there inconsistencies? No doubt. Only as America has become more diverse have we begun to recognize how many of our laws and customs assumed a Judeo-Christian norm. But they do not negate the principle of separation.
We are simply realizing places where we have not practiced what the Constitution preached. We’ve been on a journey for over two centuries. We may not have reached the destination yet.
The Religious Right Rises
For most of American history, evangelicals stood at a cautious distance from political power. They believed in influencing culture through revival and moral example, not partisan machinery. But something shifted in the late 20th century. A movement arose that wasn’t content to shape hearts. It wanted to shape laws. And it began to trade spiritual integrity for political influence.
In the 1980s, this movement took form under banners like the Moral Majority (Jerry Falwell) and the Christian Coalition (Pat Robertson). Evangelicals who had once been cultural outsiders became political kingmakers. They were wooed by politicians, given direct lines to power, and promised policies in exchange for pulpits.
The language was moral. The goals were legislative. School prayer. Abortion. These weren’t just concerns of conscience. They became litmus tests. Rallying cries in an escalating culture war. Christian voters were mobilized not to bear witness, but to win. Not to live out the gospel, but to legislate it.
Here, we see a distinct theological shift, one that Reinhold Niebuhr described as “Christ above culture.” It’s the idea that Christian truth should not merely speak to the world. It should take it over. The nation must be brought into line with God's laws whether the people consent or not. Faith isn’t just personal. It should be public policy.
That vision may feel noble. But it raises a crucial constitutional problem. When laws are crafted to reflect a specifically religious understanding of morality – especially one not shared by all citizens – those laws risk violating the First Amendment...
Unfortunately, the rise of the Religious Right wasn’t just about affirming morality. It was about acquiring power and using God as a campaign slogan. When any faith becomes a tool for political control, it’s not just democracy that suffers. It’s the credibility of the faith itself.
It's absolutely right for faith to influence conscience and values. But when the line between pastor and politician disappears then we’ve lost both gospel and government. When churches become voting blocs and candidates become messiahs, both institutions suffer. Neither was meant to serve the other. And both are cheapened when they try to...
Jesus is Not Your Party
If Jesus showed up today, he wouldn’t be speaking at anyone’s political convention. He wouldn’t be at a campaign rally. He wouldn’t be wearing a red hat or a blue one. And it's doubtful he would be forwarding political memes endorsing candidates on social media.
Jesus didn’t run for office. He didn’t fundraise. He didn’t command an army. He didn’t write legislation. When people tried to make him king, he slipped away.
That should tell us something.
When pressed about politics, Jesus said, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.” Jesus draws a line between an earthly kingdom and the kingdom of God. It echoes what theologian Reinhold Niebuhr later called the "Christ against culture" model. It is a posture of resistance, not endorsement. Christ doesn’t baptize Caesar. He doesn’t sanctify the sword. Jesus reminds us that there are higher loyalties, a kingdom that is not of this world (cf. John 18:36).
In that light, Jesus would almost certainly not belong to a political party. And if he did vote, he might do it with a broken heart, well aware that no party platform fully embodies the justice, mercy, humility, or truth of the kingdom of God.
That’s not to say Christians shouldn’t care about politics. Of course we should. Laws matter. Policies affect people’s lives. But when faith becomes fused with party identity, we’ve crossed a line. When we start treating political leaders as spiritual ones, we’ve become confused. We’ve traded kingdom thinking for tribalism.
Clearly, that line has been crossed by a large number of American Christians.
Too many Christians today conflate loyalty to Christ with loyalty to a party. Or worse, a single politician. They wrap the cross in a flag and then act surprised when people confuse the two. But when we do that, we don’t elevate politics. We shrink faith. Jesus becomes a mascot. The gospel becomes a stump speech. And the world hears something far less than good news.
There’s a reason the early church didn’t try to take over Rome. They weren’t apolitical. They were just clear about where real power lived and where it didn’t. Their job wasn’t to conquer, but to witness. They cared for others and lived so that the world saw something different.
The church does its best work not when it commands the government, but when it reminds the government who it’s supposed to serve. Not when it demands special privilege, but when it loves its neighbor – especially the ones the world would rather forget. The credibility of the church has never come from controlling the culture. It has come from resembling Christ.
Jesus is not your party. He’s not a Democrat. He’s not a Republican. He’s not waiting to be nominated, and he doesn’t need your vote.
He wants your life. And the world needs a church that can finally say, without fear or hesitation, “We have no king but Christ.”
