For many critics, the West is uniquely responsible for colonialism, racism, oppression, and exploitation. America, in particular, is portrayed as a society built upon these injustices. OUPblog - Academic insights for the thinking world.
For many critics, the West is uniquely responsible for colonialism, racism, oppression, and exploitation. America, in particular, is portrayed as a society built upon these injustices. Many of these critics were themselves raised in the West and educated in its schools and universities.
Whatever one thinks of such critiques, there is something profoundly ironic about them: many of the moral standards used to judge Western civilization are themselves products of the Western tradition. The demand for justice and human rights, the insistence that the powerful must answer for their actions, the refusal to accept that might makes right—these ideas have a distinct history. That history is complex, drawing on classical philosophy, biblical religion, Roman law, and the Christian tradition. An important, though often overlooked, stream in this history is the Calvinist tradition—a subject explored more fully in the second edition of my Calvinism: A Very Short Introduction.
John Calvin is not who most people think of when they think about ideas of justice, equality, and human dignity. He is more commonly associated with predestination, austerity, and the execution of Michael Servetus. Yet the Reformed tradition Calvin helped shape contributed ideas whose consequences reached far beyond anything he could have anticipated—and perhaps beyond some things he would have welcomed. Those ideas helped nurture forms of political liberty and moral accountability that many of his modern critics now exercise, whether they recognize their origins or not.
Consider first the profound equality Calvin placed at the center of his understanding of humanity. Because all people are created in God’s image and belong uniquely to him, Calvin insisted that no human being could ultimately be reduced to a mere possession of another. His discussions of slavery and servitude in his expositions of Exodus and Deuteronomy are among the clearest expressions of this conviction. While later generations would identify tensions between Calvin’s theological convictions and the institution of slavery as it existed in his own age, his writings nevertheless rejected the reduction of human beings to property and emphasized the obligations owed by those who exercised authority. Before God, the nobleman and the beggar stand on identical ground. Human dignity does not depend upon wealth, status, or power. These were not merely theological abstractions; they were principles whose implications later generations would develop in ways Calvin himself could scarcely have imagined.
Second, Calvin helped reshape political thought by reinforcing the conviction that rulers themselves are subject to moral judgment. He did not invent resistance theory—medieval thinkers had long wrestled with tyranny—but the Reformed tradition became one of its most influential vehicles. In the final (1559) edition of his Institutes of the Christian Religion, Calvin argued that rulers who command what is contrary to God relinquish their authority. French Huguenots, Dutch rebels, Scottish Protestants, English parliamentarians, and American revolutionaries all drew, in varying degrees, upon political arguments developed within the Calvinist tradition. The enduring principle was simple: power is never its own justification.
Third, Calvin revived a prophetic tradition of moral criticism. The biblical prophets denounced corruption, exploitation, and injustice among the powerful. Calvin adopted their posture with striking boldness. At a time when monarchs increasingly claimed sacred authority, he did not hesitate to rebuke rulers for their corruption. In a lecture on Jeremiah, he lamented that “kings are ashamed to appear humane and turn all their labors towards exercising tyranny.” In another, he complained “great kings draw human blood and do not care at all when many people perish because of them.” Such criticisms expressed Calvin’s conviction that no ruler stands above moral scrutiny. Calvin repeatedly lamented the suffering of the poor and condemned those who exploited them. Through generations of Reformed preaching and political thought, this prophetic impulse was carried far beyond sixteenth-century Geneva. It would echo through later movements that challenged entrenched authority, from campaigns against slavery to the civil rights movement and beyond.
The irony, then, becomes clearer. The critics are, of course, right to point to injustices like inequality, racism, and exploitation. These are enduring features of human societies, and the West has hardly been immune to them. Yet many of the moral concepts used to expose these failures were themselves nurtured within the Western tradition. Indeed, one of the West’s distinguishing characteristics has been its extraordinary capacity for self-criticism. America and the broader Western tradition have produced intellectual, religious, legal, and political traditions that have repeatedly exposed, criticized, and sought to reform the very injustices that exist within their own societies.
Part of that capacity arose from Calvin’s realistic assessment of human nature, his conviction that people are prone to sin and self-interest. Influenced in part by this conviction, Western political institutions increasingly sought to restrain power rather than trust it. Constitutional limits, divided authority, the rule of law, and institutional accountability were not designed to eliminate injustice altogether. They endeavored to create durable mechanisms through which injustice could be challenged and corrected. In so doing, these institutions have helped many Western societies become among the freest, most prosperous, and most legally protective in history.
None of this is evidence of either the West’s perfection or its unique immorality. It is, rather, evidence that the Western tradition has bequeathed to the modern world a moral imagination capable not only of exposing injustice but also of imagining and pursuing reform. Many of the West’s fiercest critics remain heirs to the very moral tradition that furnished them with the language through which they now judge it. That, perhaps, is one of the Western tradition’s most remarkable legacies.
Feature image: Palestine solidarity protest in Berlin. Photo by Hossam el-Hamalawy. CC-BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
Shae Washington, a Black queer Christian woman, struggled to reconcile her sexuality and her spirituality. Her church had always taught that you cannot be both Christian and queer. After years of praying about her struggle, one day she heard God say, “I have already set you free on the cross. Why are you still in the closet? Come out, be who I created you to be.” That day, when Shae chose to trust God’s authority over her own certainty, she said she felt a tremendous peace from God. That peace kept her grounded as former friends now demanded she show them where in the Bible it said this was okay and as church members charged her with arrogance for elevating her own experience over years of tradition.
Shae was among those living on the frontlines of the so-called culture wars—conservative Christians who are also LGBTQ+. Some of the things that make a lot of their lives hell make a lot of other people’s lives hell, too, in less direct ways. We all gain by understanding their situations. As we think about pride this month, the lives of LGBTQ+ conservative Christians can help us to see the link between pride and humility, and how both are necessary for love and justice. Knowing that you are a human being, worthy of love, is the kind of pride that a lot of straight, cisgender people take for granted. It is often denied to LGBTQ+ people. That is the pride we celebrate during Pride Month. As Shae’s story illustrates, many LGBTQ+ Christians find it is their humility that helps them recover or develop a healthy sense of pride: the belief in their fundamental worthiness of love and belonging.
Many LGBTQ+ conservative Christians have had loved ones cut them off from all connection out of fear that they are not just sinful, but dangerous to those they love. They are accused of “turning their backs on God,” even though many have begged and pleaded with God to take away the feelings that they thought made them unworthy of love. Still, many LGBTQ+ Christians stay connected to their faith communities, and more and more are being honest about who they are and engaging with their churches. LGBTQ+ Christians who are also people of color may need church as the one place where they find the support they need to survive living in a racist world from week to week. But unlike straight, cisgender people who may have church support groups to help with their marriages or families, LGBTQ+ people may not feel welcome to talk about their intimate relationships or find support for how to navigate them. And in predominantly white LGBTQ+ spaces, they may be free to express their sexual and gender identities, but might endure racism. Their stories make clear that it’s hard to flourish when you have to hide parts of yourself, and that we thrive when we are unconditionally loved and accepted as whole people. But getting there can be a tough road.
Looking at life from LGBTQ+ conservative Christians’ perspective, we see how actions that look like love might not actually be loving. In our research, we heard about a dynamic we call sacramental shame, where churches required LGBTQ+ members continually to feel and display shame—an emotion that signals they know they are unworthy of love—as a sign that they have not rejected God. This requirement was often shrouded in the language of love, “we love you, but we hate your sin,” and in expressions of affection and care. Being gay, bi, or trans was compared to being a murderer, or cheating on a spouse, or embezzling funds—all things that violate other people’s trust and break relationships. Yet the same people who taught that God could forgive people for these things also taught that being LGBTQ+—which is generally involuntary and doesn’t actually hurt anyone—makes a person uniquely unworthy of God’s love. When you treat being LGBTQ+ itself as a sin—the worst sin—you treat your own understanding of gender and sexuality as greater than God’s love, as a commandment more important than the Ten Commandments (which, Jesus said, all boil down to loving God and neighbor).
There is a particular harm that is caused by treating someone like their capacity to love is dangerous. It can make people feel like monsters. We heard from people for whom life had become completely unlivable because they felt unworthy of human connection and God’s love. They kept friends at arm’s length out of fear that getting too close would condemn them both to hell.
When someone has been treated this way, and comes out of it recognizing that they are not monsters but human beings, they feel alive again. That is pride: knowing that they are worthy of love and belonging, with their gifts and flaws, simply because they are human. In contrast to arrogance or hubris, we call this “relational pride.” Relational pride is taken for granted by many cisgender and heterosexual Christians, because no one ever questions that they deserve love. Knowing they are worthy of love only seems like arrogance to those who think LGBTQ+ people are uniquely unworthy. And yet they accuse LGBTQ+ people of being the arrogant ones.
Relational pride is not the opposite of humility, but its counterpart. Humility is a realistic knowledge of your gifts as well as your limitations. Humility enables us to admit that we might be wrong even when we feel pretty certain; it keeps us honest about our humanity, that none of us is all-knowing and that we need to learn from each other. Shae’s humility allowed her to be open to the possibility that she might be wrong about what she had always thought about gender and sexuality. It allowed her to trust God’s message that she is worthy of love, just as she is. What looked like arrogance to fellow church members was an act of submission to God, taking the harder path of being who God was telling her she was made to be. Shea’s humility led her to a healthy sense of pride—the joy of knowing she is worthy to give and receive love.
Humility also helps those who have devalued LGBTQ+ Christians to reconsider. Conservative Christian parents, pastors, and friends tell stories of the moment they realized that maybe they didn’t know everything about human sexuality and gender. That maybe they didn’t fully understand what the Bible was really saying. They showed humility, which led them to prioritize love over certainty.
Conservative Christians often say their job is to love others, not try to bring about social justice. But there is no love without justice. When we love other people, we are humbly open to learning from them and growing through our connection. We listen to them when they tell us we’ve been hurting them, and because we love them, we work to stop hurting them. Love also means listening when people tell you that your organization’s—or country’s—policies are hurting them, because of their sexual orientation, or gender, or race, ability, or because the policies themselves deprive them of things they need to live. Helping them to thrive might mean working to change those policies—out of love.
We on the left can also be arrogant, dismissing those we disagree with as backwards or even evil. To be sure, there are some pretty evil things happening in the world right now. It can be harmful to try to empathize with someone who treats you as if you shouldn’t exist. But trying to understand the fears behind their actions—when we can do so without personal harm—can help us all to find a way forward, to a society in which people are all treated as worthy of love and care not just from their friends and family, but by institutions and policies. Humility and pride foster solidarity—a relationship of love that works for justice.
At his passing in 2015, President Barack Obama celebrated Andraé Crouch as the “leading pioneer of contemporary gospel music.” The Guardian UK newspaper’s obituary called him the “foremost gospel singer of his generation.” Ten years after his death, Andraé Crouch’s songs are still found in more hymnals—Black and white—than any African American composer, save Thomas Dorsey (and Dorsey had a 30-year head start!).
While Crouch’s live performances galvanized audiences in venues ranging from Madison Square Garden and Carnegie Hall to Explo ’72, it is his compositions that are best remembered today. As Obama suggested, Crouch all but created contemporary gospel music. He’s also credited as the founder of the Praise & Worship music phenomenon. He was an innovative evangelist, a restless composer, musical experimenter, and a perfectionist whose gospel songs are still sung today around the world.
Choosing among Crouch’s many recordings from a 50-year career in music is an exercise in frustration but we have identified 10 songs that we believe can truthfully be said to be “transformative”:
1. “The Blood (Will Never Lose Its Power)”
While watching the Rev. James Cleveland pour barbecue sauce on a brisket at a cookout, Crouch, still just in his teens, was inspired to write his first gospel song, “The Blood (Will Never Lose Its Power).” Frustrated, Crouch initially tossed the hastily scribbled lyrics, but twin sister Sandra Crouch fished the sheet from the trash and Billy Preston quickly fleshed-out Andréa’s melody. Crouch recorded two versions of “The Blood,” this one sung by Billy Thedford (later Bili Redd) from the album Take the Message Everywhere (1969).
2. “I’ve Got Confidence”
The most pop-oriented of all of Crouch’s hits, this happy, upbeat number caught the ear of Elvis Presley, who recorded it in 1972 on his final and best-reviewed religious album, He Touched Me. The song was quickly recorded by dozens of other artists. “I’ve Got Confidence” appears on Andraé and the Disciples’ Keep on Singin’ (1970).
3. “My Tribute (to God be the Glory)”
One of Crouch’s most symphonic—and beloved—compositions, “My Tribute” owes a spiritual debt to the beloved hymn writer Fanny Crosby’s “To God be the Glory.” The song’s soaring chorus comes to a dramatic crescendo and has become a part of the evangelical church’s core repertoire since its first appearance on Keep on Singin’ but it is Alfie Silas Durio’s heart-stoppingly stratospheric recording on the Finally album (1982) that remains the definitive version.
4. “Through It All”
In his short biography by the same name from 1974, Crouch tells the heartbreaking story of his first and greatest love, Tramaine Davis, who left the Disciples and married famed gospel singer Walter Hawkins. The loss threw Andraé into a deep depression that only lifted when the words and music to this triumphant ballad came to him, though he couldn’t bring himself to record it until the release of the Soulfully album in early 1972.
5. “Satisfied”
One of the defining moments of the Jesus Music movement and the beginnings of contemporary Christian music is Andraé Crouch and the Disciples’ electrifying performance of “Satisfied” before 80,000 screaming fans at Explo ’72 in Dallas—still one of the largest religious music festivals ever. The Disciples turned what was a pop song on Soulfully into a Holiness piano-driven gospel vamp/stomp. The Explo ’72 version is available on YouTube via a professionally-produced video that includes footage of the massive festival.
6. “Bless His Holy Name”
Perhaps the first recording of a song in the style of what would come to be called Praise & Worship music, “Bless His Holy Name” is the highlight of Crouch’s first “solo” album, Just Andrae (late 1972). Andraé would return to his format throughout his career, with gentle, reverent hymns like “Hallelujah,” “It Won’t Be Long,” and “Praises.”
7. “Jesus is the Answer”
Though recorded before Just Andrae,“Live” in Carnegie Hall was not released until a year later, in 1973. The album, which served as his breakthrough in both the Black and white Christian markets, showcases Andrae’s reliance on the Holy Spirit to “lead” the services. “Jesus is the Answer” was still only partially completed when he introduced it on the Carnegie Hall stage. Paul Simon found the happy, bouncy tune so appealing that he recorded it on Live Rhymin’ later that year.
8. “Take Me Back”
By the release of the Take Me Back album in 1975, “A-list” studio musicians were clamoring to record Crouch’s innovative, instantly memorable songs. The song showcases Billy Preston’s inspired work on the Hammond B3 organ and the brilliant vocals of Danniebelle Hall. Whatever musical adventures Crouch might explore elsewhere, he always included at least one triumphant, memorable gospel song like “Take Me Back.”
9. “Soon and Very Soon”
Though released on the It’s Another Day album (late 1976), “Soon and Very Soon” is based on a timeless Church of God in Christ chant—or perhaps an even older spiritual. It is compelling, haunting and irresistible, especially when the senior members of his father’s Christ Memorial Radio Choir, led by 80-something Mother Dora Brackins, join the chorus on the close.
10. “Just Like He Said He Would”
Live in London (1978), with its iconic cover of a spaceship piano hovering over the United Kingdom, was Andrae’s last great release. Over the course of the two LPs, Crouch preaches, testifies, re-visits, and re-imagines beloved favorites, unpredictably introduces old hymns, and improvises several new songs on the spot. “Just Like He Said He Would,” originally released on Take Me Back, brilliantly synthesizes jazz, funk, R&B, rock, and gospel into a seamless whole—and thrills the stunned English audience.
A popular new Netflix series, American Primeval, is stirring up national interest in a long-forgotten but explosive episode in America’s past. Though the series is highly fictionalized, it is loosely based on events covered in my recent, nonfiction publication, Vengeance Is Mine: The Mountain Meadows Massacre and Its Aftermath, co-written with Richard E. Turley Jr.
From 1857–58, Mormon settlers of Utah Territory waged a war of resistance against the federal government after the newly elected US president sent troops to occupy the Salt Lake Valley. Concerned about the Mormons’ expanding theocracy in the West—Brigham Young was not only the president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but also Utah’s governor—President James Buchanan’s advisors urged him to replace Young with a new governor, accompanied by an army contingent. The occupation of Utah by federal troops, the advisors insisted, was necessary to ensure that Mormons accepted their federally appointed leader.
Though tensions ran extremely hot, remarkably, no pitched battles broke out between the two sides in what became known as the Utah War. But the conflict was anything but bloodless. In the heat of the hysteria, Mormon militiamen in southwest Utah committed a war atrocity, slaughtering a California-bound wagon train of more than a hundred men, women, and children.
Mountain Meadows Massacre Site Mass Grave Monument near St. George, Utah TQSmith, CC BY-SA 4.0 , via Wikimedia Commons.
Viewers have been asking what is fact and what is fiction in American Primeval’s depiction of the Utah War. Vengeance Is Mine answers those questions. Below are just a few of the answers:
Did the Mormons actually purchase and burn down Fort Bridger?
Yes, though their motivations for doing both were different than those portrayed in the series. They purchased Fort Bridger in 1855—two years before any of the events depicted in the series took place. They bought it to be a trailside way station to supply thousands of immigrant converts making their way to Utah. Mormon militiamen burned down the fort in October 1857, along with the army’s supply wagons and grasses their draft animals needed to survive, all to thwart the advance of the approaching US troops and stall them on the plains of what is now Wyoming.
Did Mormon militiamen really wipe out a contingent of the US Army and a band of Shoshone people?
No. The militiamen’s scorched-earth tactics successfully slowed the troops’ approach until winter snows set in, making trails into the Salt Lake Valley impassable and forcing the troops to spend a miserable winter in a tent city they created outside the burned-out remains of Fort Bridger. When Congress met in early 1858, it rejected President Buchanan’s proposal to raise additional troops to send to Utah and forced Buchanan to broker a peace settlement with Mormon leaders instead. A few years later, in 1863, a different US Army contingent stationed in Utah slaughtered a band of more than four hundred Shoshone people in the Bear River Massacre, in what is southern Idaho today.
Did the Mountain Meadows Massacre take place just outside of Fort Bridger, and did the Shoshone and Southern Paiute live nearby?
No. The Mountain Meadows is in the desert climate of southwestern Utah, several hundred miles south of Fort Bridger. In the series, a band of Shoshone murder a group of Paiute men who had supposedly participated in the massacre in order to kidnap and rape white women. None of this was true. The traditional homelands of the Northwestern Shoshone are in what is today northern Utah and southern Idaho, and the Southern Paiute live in today’s southwestern Utah and Nevada, hundreds of miles apart. The Shoshone and Paiute weren’t at war and rarely, if ever, came in contact with each other. The Southern Paiute did not kidnap and rape women. The massacre was orchestrated by a group of 50-60 Mormon militiamen to cover up their involvement in a cattle raid of the wagon company that went awry. In the war hysteria of 1857, they thought that violence—murdering all the witnesses besides 17 young children—was the answer to protect themselves and their community.
Map of the Mountain Meadows region. Map created by Sheryl Dickert Smith and Tom Child for Mountain Meadows Massacre, OUP (2008) pg. 130.
Tragically, the political wrangling and tensions over federal and local rule, separation of church and state, and religious zeal and bigotry, led to a deadly climax on 11 September 1857. Modern readers may recognize similar tensions today, not only in the West but throughout the United States.
The first light of dawn flickered through the trees as soldiers rushed to take position around the fort. Twenty soldiers from Massachusetts commanded by Captain John Underhill prepared to storm the south gate. Another sixty from Connecticut under Captain John Mason would move against the northeast gate. Behind them, some three hundred Natives—Mohegans, Eastern Niantics, and Narragansetts—formed a perimeter surrounding the fort to prevent anyone from escaping.
It was Friday, 26 May 1637. Inside the fort, known as Mystic, in modern day eastern Connecticut, between four hundred and seven hundred Pequots lay sleeping. As the soldiers crept forward, a dog started barking. The soldiers opened fire. Although the Pequots had been taken by surprise, they offered bitter resistance. Soldiers cut their way into the fort, which they found crammed full of wigwams. Soon as many as twenty soldiers were killed or wounded.
Captain Mason made a snap decision: “We must burn them.” The wigwams were covered with mats made from “rushes and hempen threads” that lit easily. The soldiers withdrew, and the densely packed wigwams quickly became an inferno. Mason ordered his soldiers and their Indian allies to prevent anyone from escaping. While some Pequots fought on, others, including groups of women and children, tried to flee the fort. Soldiers cut them down with swords. “Down fell men, women, and children,” Captain Underhill recalled. “Not above five of them escaped out of our hands.” Only seven were taken prisoner. The rest were killed.
A relieved Mason later proclaimed that the victory belonged to God. “God was above them, who laughed his enemies and the enemies of his people to scorn, making them as a fiery oven,” he crowed. Thus did the LORD judge among the heathen, filling the place with dead bodies.” Like his soldiers, Mason viewed the massacre as vengeance on the Pequots for their brutal raid on the Connecticut town of Wethersfield, back in April, in which nine unsuspecting settlers had been killed. Puritan pastors had assured the soldiers that their cause was just and that God was with them: the heathen were servants of Satan who threatened not only their families and communities, but Christ’s nascent kingdom in the American wilderness.
This was not why the Puritans had come to America. When their leaders recruited potential colonists in England and lobbied the crown for permission to migrate, they had emphasized that their efforts would result in the salvation of the Natives. Indeed, the Massachusetts Bay colony charter, issued in 1629, declared that the “principal” purpose of the colony was to “win and incite the natives of [the] country to the knowledge and obedience of the only true God and Savior of mankind, and the Christian faith.” The colony seal depicted a humble Indian petitioning the English to “come over and help us,” which was exactly what most Puritans thought they were doing. They viewed their efforts as a sort of spiritual warfare in which they were saving Native souls from Satan’s tyranny.
Their efforts had begun peacefully enough. Alliances and trade relations had been established with many Native communities. But many Puritans had imagined that the Natives would embrace Christianity with open arms, and this did not happen. When Indians aligned with the Pequots killed an English trader, the English felt they had to retaliate with a raid against the Pequots. When the Pequots retaliated in kind, the English decided to destroy them. A spiritual war for Native souls devolved into a military campaign to obliterate a Native nation.
The massacre at Mystic was a low point in English-Native relations, and the Pequot War was relatively brief. The support of the Mohegans, Eastern Niantics, and Narragansetts for colonial forces is a reminder that more Indians supported the English during the Pequot War than opposed them. If anything, English military dominance enhanced the credibility of Christianity among Indians. A renegade Pequot named Wequash, who had guided colonial forces to Fort Mystic, was so stunned by English power that he became convinced their God was real, converted to Christianity, and began to evangelize other Natives. During the 1640s, numerous Native communities began to submit to the English and accept Christianity. Thanks to the efforts of missionaries like John Eliot and Thomas Mayhew, over the next three largely peaceful decades, thousands of Natives would accept Christianity. Some twenty “praying towns” were organized where Indians were guaranteed their land in exchange for submitting to Christian teaching and administering their own Christian governments.
Nevertheless, the massacre at Mystic was a constant reminder of what the English could do if America’s First People resisted them. The Puritans wanted to conquer the Indians for Christianity through love and justice, but they were willing to conquer them by force if provoked, and they were fully convinced that this too was in accord with God’s will. Conscientious Christians would protest cases of injustice, but there was never a doubt whose side they would take if war broke out.
It all came to a head in King Philip’s War, perhaps the bloodiest war per capita in American history, fought in 1675-1676. Once again, the English and their Indian allies–some Christian, others not–squared off with their Indian enemies. This time the conflict would rage across New England and beyond. Puritan ministers reminded their people that they deserved God’s wrath, but they also insisted that God would not abandon them if they repented and faithfully defended Christ’s kingdom. Their Christian Indian allies did not disagree. Some Indians believed their own welfare required supporting the English. Others were convinced that the English had to be defeated. Religion, culture, trade, government, even simple survival–everything was at stake. All came down to the catastrophe of a war that would decide the fate of New England.
Featured image Engraver unknown. Author of folio was John Underhill (1597-1672). Photo-Facsimile by Edward Bierstadt (1824–1906), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
.jpg){kind=link}
