This Article is the first of a four-part series that briefly explores the complexity of American religious diversity in the colonial period and the making of religious liberty. The first piece describes the magical world that European Christians inherited and brought with them across the Atlantic.

One of the most common assumptions about early American history is that the United States was founded on a relatively unified Christian worldview. The story often sounds something like this: European Christians crossed the Atlantic, planted churches, and built a society shaped primarily by biblical values. Believe me, I taught it in a Texas Public school history class. We may not have used the term “biblical values,” but it was assumed that these groups more or less shared the same religious ideas about how to shape America's future.

Even more dangerous notions, like those stated by relearn.org, are that American diversity did not include those from outside of Europe, or even those of Hindu or Muslim faiths.

This begs the question: what did religion look like in colonial America, and how did Christianity become such a dominant force within the states? These two questions could take a whole semester to digest, but I hope to provide the first steps into thinking about this issue critically. We must begin our story before the American Revolution.

A Space Where Magic and Christianity Coexisted

In Magic, Astrology, and the Early American Religious Heritage, 1600–1760, Jon Butler challenges the assumption that early colonists were “Christian” in the ways we might think of today. Practices that many colonists and the founders used may seem otherworldly to us.

Instead, he argues that Christianity in the early modern Atlantic world coexisted with a wide range of practices that today would be labeled “non-Christian” or even “superstitious.”

Butler puts it this way:

“On the eve of colonization Christianity in its different forms filled out only part of the English religious spectrum… But occult practices comprised much of the remainder.”

A person might:

• Attend church services

• Pray to God through Christ

• Believe in the authority of Scripture
  

  AND

• Consult astrology charts

• Use charms or folk remedies

• Believe in curses or witchcraft

• seek divination in moments of uncertainty

To illustrate Butler's point, he uses John Dee as an example. Dee was not an outsider practicing strange rituals in secret. He was one of the most respected scholars in Elizabethan England and served as a trusted advisor to Queen Elizabeth I. Before she was crowned, Dee even chose the date of her coronation by consulting the stars because he believed the timing would influence the success of her reign. At the same time, he spent years trying to communicate with angels, convinced they could reveal divine wisdom that would deepen his understanding of God's creation. His work is a reminder that the line between Christianity and what we now call the “occult” was far blurrier than we often imagine. It was this kind of religious world that many English colonists brought with them across the Atlantic.

If one of England's leading Christian intellectuals could embrace both Scripture and astrological signs, we should not be surprised to find the same blend of beliefs among the people who settled early America. These ideas were contained and spread through the printing of Almanacs. Many historians have argued that almanacs frequently outsold the Bible during this time. The average colonist could rely on God’s providence AND how it might correlate to the phases of the moon.

These almanacs are quite different from the Almanacs you might find today. They contained the usual weather patterns and major holidays. However, these old almanacs included esoteric knowledge like the Man of Signs. It correlated astrological data to the human body to help colonists understand when certain medical procedures should take place.

These supernatural ideas were in such high demand by colonists that almanac authors often complained if the “Man of Signs” was not included. A poem written by Samuel Clough in 1703 captures the moment:

The Anatomy must still be in

Else the Almanack’s not worth a pin

For Country-men regard the Sign

As though ‘Twere Oracle Divine

To make my ideas a bit clearer, imagine America as a kaleidoscope. On the outside, you have just one unified system, but when you look inside, that picture becomes more colorful and sometimes disorienting. Rather than imagining early modern Europeans as choosing between Christianity and “magic,” Butler suggests they lived in a religious ecosystem where these categories overlapped. This ecosystem is what they brought with them to the Americas.

As a result, Butler resists the idea that early America was simply “Christian.” Instead, he sees something closer to a marketplace of religious ideas, where Christianity, folk religion, astrology, and magic all competed and combined in everyday life.

From the clear boundaries we like to put on religion today, this looks like a contradiction. But Butler’s point is that it wasn’t experienced that way at the time. Yet, where did these beliefs go?

The Boundary Making Process

Not all Christians were on board with occult practices. Many saw amulets, astrology, and palm reading as dangerous. To make it clear, the belief was not that it didn’t exist; they certainly believed in powers beyond the material world. The question was where the power was coming from. The use of occult practices was apparently common enough for a prominent minister, Cotton Mather, to write numerous books against their use. In a chapter called A Discourse on Witchcraft, He even changes his language in his sermons to make it more appealing to his audience, saying, “There are three admirable Amulets that I can heartily recommend unto you all: A fervent Prayer… A Lively Faith… [and] A Holy Life”

His work, Wonders of the Invisible World, recounted how witches and devils were disrupting the heart of the Christian community. People were practicing occult magic and paying the price. However, because of this belief, he urged against the use of “spectral evidence” in the Salem Witch Trials because it might lead to false accusations - the Devil is a liar!

As the Enlightenment brought more rationalized thought to the colonies, many found discussions of divination or even witches to be embarrassing. Almanacs still had the Man of Signs, but would add phrases that took out the promise of their accuracy.

Many ministers were stripped of their positions or threatened because of their practice in astrology, palm reading, or even geomancy (reading the earth for signs). In the Quaker community, Phillip Roman Jr. and his brother were told to stop using these practices, “in resolving questions Concerning Loss and gain with other vain Questions.” It was only after much debate that they stopped practicing, but only some. They insisted on practicing others if “it was to do some great good.”

According to their church bylaws, they couldn’t remove Roman from his position. So they performed legal action. Many who accused him were county magistrates and indicted him on a charge of witchcraft because of Occult books found in his library. The decision was finalized with a monetary fine and he was ordered to “never practise the arts but… behave himselfe well for the future.”

Benjamin Franklin also contributed to this change in almanacs. He created his own Almanac and mocked the supernatural ideas of astrology. He jokingly predicted the exact death dates of competing astrologers, posing himself as “Poor Richard” to both mock almanac makers with little education and appeal to lower classes.

These shifts continued in other works, but stories of devils and witches remained. Davy Crockett's Almanac (1843) reflects these style changes, yet it still assumed that devils lived among ordinary people, often associating them with local Indians. These widely circulated almanacs also helped transform Davy Crockett from a historical figure into a national frontier folk hero.

Religious traditions proved remarkably flexible. People borrowed practices that seemed effective, meaningful, or necessary for life in an unfamiliar and often dangerous world. This is often why scholars who study religion in pluralistic settings define it as a constant state of conflict and compromise. They are always checking where the boundaries are (in this case, what is a “true” Christian) and defining themselves inside/outisde them.

Rethinking the “Christian America” Narrative

Christianity certainly became the dominant public religion of colonial governments and, later, of the leaders of the United States. Churches received legal privileges in many colonies, biblical language shaped public rhetoric, and Christian assumptions influenced law and politics.

Yet dominance should not be confused with uniformity.

Of course, most who claim that America was founded as a Christian nation point to the Constitution and the declining belief in these occult practices as evidence for a Christian formation. Yet, beneath the official story lay extraordinary religious diversity. The result is not a single religious foundation, but a dynamic and often messy religious environment. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, as the Civil War approached, had this to say about the boundaries being placed on these ideas.

This quote, as Butler argues, points to the challenges we face in American religious history. We must ask ourselves, what aspects of the American past are we forgetting when focusing only on churches and famous leaders?

Perhaps the greatest myth is not that Christianity shaped America. It clearly did. The myth is that it did so alone. Magic began its early descent into the margins of public and legal privileges, but found a safe home in hearts and in private lives. Of course, these religious ideas were not alone in their marginalization; many others did as well in the creation of the Constitution.

To understand American religion, we must resist the temptation to flatten that complexity. The kaleidoscope is far more complicated when we take the time to look inside.

For those who do not know me, my name is Christopher Symms. I teach theology at St. Stephen’s Episcopal School in North Austin to 8th graders. And let me just say, what a fun age to be alive. I’m not sure about you, but I would be ok NOT going back to my middle school days. Puberty, friends, girlfriends, and figuring out my own identity. No, thank you! What’s really nice, though, is that our class takes a trip every year to Big Bend to bond as a class community.

Have you ever been to Big Bend? It’s an awesome place. One of the hikes we take is along the South Rim. It’s about 13 miles, climbing nearly 2,000 feet. If you’ve never climbed to the South Rim before, this trail for the first two miles climbs nearly half of the elevation. It is steep, and some students are asking if they can drop out by mile 2. It is so tough. I’m carrying my backpack and other backpacks in each hand so these kids can get a break from the weight of the water they are carrying. It is tough!

About halfway up the mountain, the trail changes. The ground turns to a dark powdery dust, almost like soot. I’ll ask them what they think it is. Burnt wood? Ash from a fire? Some of my students are really smart and remember that there was a big fire at Big Bend just a couple of years back. But it’s older than that fire. In fact, it’s even older than the mountains formed there. It’s volcanic ash. Laid down here 30, maybe 40 million years ago, when it looked nothing like it does today. No trail. No canyon views. Just a restless, erupting landscape.

Of course, once they figured this out, my students began to color themselves with it - painting their faces, their arms, their legs - anywhere they could find a place to keep it. Some put it in a container to take it home. It’s honestly a nice reward for the hard climb at the very beginning, before you get to the top. I remember one student in particular turning to me and saying, “It’s like I’m holding an entirely different world.”

Then, they look at me, knowing that I’m about to try to put some theological spin on it as I start “you know…” and they start walking away. “No, Mr. Symms! We aren’t in school right now…”

Then we get up to the South Rim about 5 hours into the hike and take in the scenery. From there, you can see miles upon miles of the Chisos Mountains. You can see the canyon that has been formed by years of erosion. So when they stand there, surrounded by silence and sky, they can see themselves standing in the middle of a story that they are intimately a part of. Something we might call sacred in a sense.

If only I could get my 8th graders to hold onto that feeling of awe and wonder for just a little longer. Maybe it’s because it’s a feeling they have within their hearts, but it might be embarrassing to say out loud. Have you ever had that feeling where you feel connected to something larger than the small bubble of your own life?

And this is where my position is somewhat unique as a theology teacher. St. Stephen’s is a day and boarding school for students from all over the world. Part of my job is to talk about the concept of the sacred or the divine - what we in the United States commonly refer to as “God.” While most of the students are from the United States, as far as New York, I currently have students from Mexico, India, China, and Saudi Arabia. Along with their geographical diversity, they also bring their own religious diversity as well. While the majority of my students were raised in a Christian tradition, some have kept that commitment, while others are currently questioning or come from non-religious homes. I also have students who identify as Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, and more broadly as “spiritual.” However, what I really appreciate about my department and my own position is that our commitment to diversity has opened the door to different ways of approaching this subject, which is kind of unique in private education.

This idea - that we are intimately part of the world - is not only something that I teach, but has been given to me by my own spiritual tradition of Christian Mysticism. Christian mysticism is one stream of thought that runs through the whole Christian tradition. At its heart, it’s the belief that the divine - God - is not distant or abstract, but can be directly experienced, whether that be in silence, at the top of a mountain, in the depths of our own being.

One thinker who has been influential in my thoughts around this subject is Hildegard of Bingen. She is a mystic and a saint within the Catholic Church in the 12th century, and one of only four women who are considered Doctors of the Church. While she was venerated as a saint and many people acknowledged her immeasurable service to the church, she was not officially recognized as a saint until 2012, about 700-800 years later.

She is typically known for her music. She revolutionized music in the West by writing a prototype for what would later become known as opera, 300 years later. But she was also a botanist who wrote many works focusing on the healing properties of the natural world. She came up with herbal remedies and spice combinations that could cure more than just physical illnesses. She even invented something known as the “joy” spice that combined nutmeg, cinnamon, and clover. This became a popular spice around warm festive seasons and something you will commonly smell in Christmas dishes. While it was shared and adapted to fit different tastes in each region, it was eventually adapted into our modern-day pumpkin spice. So if you don’t remember anything else today, just remember you can thank Hildegard for your pumpkin spice lattes.

She also contributed to medical practices as well. In medieval medicine, there was a concept known as the four humors - these substances that kept you balanced and healthy. When one was out of alignment, that is where sickness came from. For example, too much black bile within your system causes melancholy or depression. As a result of her beliefs about the natural world, Hildegard believed there was a substance within us called “viriditas,” which in Latin means greenness or vigor. Think of it like a spark to a fire. You have all the ingredients and fuel, but you need a spark. That spark or that feeling of coming alive is what she describes as “viriditas.” This, for Hildegaard, was not unique to humans but to all of life. But for her, when we recognize our intimate relationship with the earth, seeing it as a gift rather than a tool, healing can take place. Not just on a physical level but on a much more spiritual level as well.

Like when my students come alive at the thought of rubbing volcanic ash on their faces, or the landscape leaves them speechless for just a moment. It gives meaning to the hard hike they just completed and motivation to keep trekking forward. It might just be small moments of stillness, when you walk outside after it rains and you take a deep breath without even recognizing it, and you pause.

With that being said, in the spirit of Hildegard, I would like to give you the foundation of where she gets these ideas from Genesis. Ironically, in the United States, it is the Genesis creation story that has been used to justify the exploitation of the earth. Western thought on these passages has cast humans as separate from the natural world rather than as people who are intimately a part of it. While this story does use language that seems to allow for the domination of the world, when we think about how this story discusses our relationship to the earth, it argues for something much different.

Ok. Here we go.

When God began to create the heavens and the earth, the earth was without shape or form. It was dark over the deep sea, and God’s wind swept over the waters. (Genesis 1:1-2 CEB).

I want to focus on the phrase God’s wind. Most translations say “Spirit of God.” But the Hebrew word for this is “Ruach.” Try to say that with me… Ruach. Really gotta get that phlegm in there… My 8th graders love this part and get a chance to spit on their friends.

Put your hand in front of your mouth and take a deep breath… This is your Ruach. You take a deep breath, and a “wind” comes out. What do we usually call this “wind”? Breath right? This is what Ruach means. Wind or breath, but in the author’s understanding, it is also what keeps us going. The breath of life. They call it our “spirit.” So when these authors are imagining how everything comes into being, this is what they are trying to depict. God “speaks” things into existence. Here we can also get a glimpse of Hildegard’s idea of viriditas. It is a “breath” or a “wind” that, when it flows across the land, brings life wherever it goes. The idea is that every breath that we take is the same breath that animates the animals, trees, and plants around us.

God, in this story, then goes on to create the heavens and the earth in seven days. Remember “speaking” things into existence with Ruach. But what is fascinating is that each day, there is a new domain or realm created in the first three days. Then, days 4-6 each have the inhabitants of that space. The day and the night, which are “ruled” by the sun and the moon. Then there are the sky and waters with their respective “rulers,” the birds and the fish. Then we get to the sixth day, after all has been created; humans are then “made in the image of God.” It is implied that we are the “rulers” of the earth:

So God created humankind in his image… and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth.” (Genesis 1:27-28)

This is where it can get uncomfortable. This idea of “having dominion” over the earth is where we get the idea that we can dominate or exploit the earth. It is our domain to do with as we please. I will also mention the fact that you can’t get away from the special status humans are given in this story, but special does not mean free rein; it comes with responsibility. That’s what makes it special. We need to deconstruct the assumption that this gives us reason to do whatever we want. What the story might be trying to say is that if humans are made in the image of this divine character, then we are meant to bring life to the world around us. This is not a call for exploitation but for engagement. This is a call to serve the earth.

This is then made apparent in Genesis 2:

Then the Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and the man became a living being

Here in this text, “man” in Hebrew is Adam. Sounds maybe like a familiar name? Yes, Adam! Adam means human or humanity as a whole. So Adam is formed from the dust of the ground or in Hebrew… Adammah. Did anyone catch it? Adam is formed from Adammah! The writers are clever - we are little earthlings! It is a combination of earth itself and Ruach, the breath of life, that makes us. Despite modern interpretations that we are separated from the natural world. This story illustrates differently. There is no separating us from the earth

So, if you’re taking notes, my point from the Genesis text is this: The Genesis creation story sees the divine not only as a creator but within creation itself - bringing life wherever it goes. Moreover, just as the earth provides us with everything for our well-being, we must also give back to it.

This is the foundation of Hildegard’s idea: The earth brings healing to us all because we are formed from it.

So when my 8th graders get up to the peak of the South Rim and take a deep breath, they take in the view around them. They begin to feel like life is more than just the bubble of their own reality. I can only hope they feel and recognize the viriditas within them and that there is deep connectedness to all of life. I can say that it exists all I want, but it is up to them and up to you to see it.

I will end with a quote by Robin Wall Kimmerer. If you are not familiar, she is a Potawatomi botanist, professor, and author who blends indigenous wisdom with modern scientific knowledge. In her book called Braiding Sweetgrass, she inspires her readers to live into this reciprocal relationship with the earth:

She says:

“Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily, and I must return the gift.”

For our 8th graders and seniors especially, this season carries a particular kind of uncertainty. Some are preparing for new schools, new teachers, new friendships, and new communities. Even for those whose circumstances may not change dramatically, summer itself disrupts the rhythms and routines that have shaped daily life for the past year. Change, whether large or small, has a way of reminding us how much of life exists beyond our control.

Below is a short reflection I wrote as an offering for students as they enter the summer months and hopefully find moments of stillness in the midst of transition.

When I was coming into my teenage years, I would attend a summer church camp called Beach Retreat! Every morning, over 100 kids would sit about 15 ft apart and do a daily devotional. We would read one scripture, a sentence or paragraph from the Bible, and then answer some questions about how we could apply this teaching to our own lives, usually about helping others or building a relationship with God in some way.

After filling out the sheet in my devotional book, we would have about 15-20 minutes of just sitting there. Honestly, this would become my favorite thing of the entire trip. It was one of the only moments that my thoughts would quiet down, and I would stop worrying about how I looked, what people thought of me, and what I was doing with my day. I could just sit and stare at the ocean.

Over the years, I find myself back in the sand staring out into the ocean, I get the same feeling: a stillness, or a calm. At the same time, it makes me feel lighter and like everything is going to be ok - even when the world feels like it’s crumbling around me.

But if any of you have been to a church camp, you would know these quiet reflective moments were not everything. There were games, group activities, and concerts. All trying to get you hyped up for God and a Christ Perspective! It’s not a bad idea. Who wouldn’t want to keep that perspective every single day? That’s when you look at another person, even the one you kind of find annoying, you look at them with love and compassion. The feeling that it doesn’t matter how you look, your social status, the grades you’re making, or that you made mistakes in your past, because you are loved. I mean, what an awesome feeling! Yet, trying to keep that perspective was really hard for me. It’s hard for everyone!

What made it feel impossible for me was my struggle with depression. When I was around 12, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Which just means I’m a little more sad than most. I also often think about the purpose and meaning of my own existence a little bit more than some. So for me as a kid, having a strong sense of identity and purpose was really important to me. And I wanted to make a difference, so I really owned being the church kid.

I was playing in worship bands at 14, started my own worship band, and became the worship leader of my church by 18. At this time, I had become a youth leader as well and preached my first-ever sermon. It was really in serving others that I felt the pain of my depression begin to lift. Like when we would serve tacos on Tuesdays during dinner, or Wednesday night basketball, Thursday’s Clothing Drive, Saturday’s bible breakfast, or Sunday worship. I was there a lot! My church offered an amazing community, but it was during my senior year that my church would make a hard decision on what community meant.

When deciding who would attend our youth group summer camp, we ran into a problem. My best friend had recently revealed they were gay. My church felt it best if my friend did not attend the retreat, as it was an overnight camp and there was a possibility of “temptation” in the dorms. This reasoning made sense to me at the time, but hopefully you can see why it doesn’t as I tell you this story today. The ultimate decision was that they were no longer allowed on the trip, and they had to revoke their church membership. In our youth meeting that day, I spoke out against my friend. As a result, I became partly responsible for the split of my own church community. The church would have a hard time recovering after that.

I also had a hard time recovering. Turning my back on my best friend came with a lot of inner turmoil, and no amount of service would fix that; it only distracted me. After that encounter, my friend wanted nothing to do with me. But I felt justified. I defended my faith, I stood up to the face of sin, or what I strongly believed was wrong, but it did not bring me joy. I only felt like a traitor, and I covered it up with the assurance of being right. When it was quiet, my inner voice of shame came back. Over the next two years, I would reflect on this moment. What did it really mean to follow Jesus? To serve others? Was I causing more harm?

It was in these moments that I wondered where God was again. Where was that feeling of the sand beneath my feet, where was that feeling of being ok?

Before I really had time to process many of the lingering questions,I graduated high school, and then I flunked my first year of college. Despite being third in my class in high school, I was unable to keep up and lost over $10,000 in scholarships. My whole life was spent preparing for school, even finishing some college early in high school, but I didn’t get farther than a year.

After my first year of college, shame kept me from returning to my church community, and it kept me from reaching out to friends. I felt broken, lost, and completely uncertain about where my life was headed. So, trying to figure out what came next, I joined the military.

When I came back from basic training, life moved fast. I worked at a restaurant, got married, had my first child, and then found out I was deploying overseas before I could even return to school full-time. Two years earlier, I thought my life had a clear direction: church kid, future pastor, top of my class, full scholarships. Now I was a college dropout, a young husband and father, and thousands of miles away in a country I never imagined being in for a reason unknown to me. I’d like to say when I came back, it was all better, but I came back feeling even more lost and unsure of who I was.

It was around this time that my depression became impossible to ignore. I felt betrayed - a point of justice, I suppose. The answers I was given did not make sense:

Just because I was religious did not mean I was being loving.

Just because I carried a weapon did not mean I was strong.

Just because I was smart did not mean I knew all the answers.

In fact, I had no clear answers for what my future was supposed to look like. And sitting there with all that uncertainty, all I wanted was what I used to feel sitting on the beach: stillness, peace, and the sense that somehow everything was going to be ok.

Uncertainty is part of being human. Pain is part of being human. There are going to be moments in your life where you don’t know what comes next, where you make mistakes you regret, where you disappoint yourself and others, where people leave, where things fall apart, and where no perfect answer shows up to save you. But what do we do in these moments?

I did just about everything you could to try to get these feelings to go away, but it only made them louder. When you’re an adult, you have a lot more options on how to deal with those feelings… Eventually, after fighting so hard and shaming myself for not feeling better… I just had to do exactly what I would do as a kid. Just sit.

When I sat on that beach, I had to physically sit there until someone told me it was time to go. Those few minutes of just sitting and watching. Watching the waves out there became watching the waves in here! I was just sitting and watching myself. My feelings, my thoughts, my hopes, my fears, everything. I just met it with stillness. No, it did not mean that the pain went away. My problems did not disappear. But for 15 minutes every day, I stopped trying to control everything.

I stopped worrying about who I was supposed to be.

I stopped trying to predict the future.

I stopped trying to earn love.

I just sat there with the ocean. It accepted me as I was, just as I accepted it. It did not ask me to bring a gift for it, nor did it ask me to wash off before getting onto its sand. It did not even ask me to learn about it before coming onto the beach. No, it accepted me as I was. And maybe living with uncertainty starts there too, not in finally finding all the answers, but in learning how to sit with the waves as they are. There is no changing the storm, so ride it out.

That is why I love the Psalm today, “The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing,” or some translations have it as “I have everything I need, or I shall not want.” In these moments where I feel lost, hopeless, betrayed, doubtful, uncertain… I am reminded that when I meet these feelings in stillness, “the green pastures, the quiet waters,” rather than trying to fix it, I have everything I need.

I guess it’s safe to say I’m a beach person. But whether you are a beach person or a mountain person, I hope this summer you can find those spaces of stillness and know that everything will be ok. Thank you!

Pursuing Those On The Margins

In the fall of 1813, James Stevenson rode north from his small settlement on the Ouachita River in Arkansas to visit his brother, William Stevenson, who at the time was serving as a Methodist minister in Missouri and a local farmer. During his visit, James was struck by “the advantage of a preached gospel among the people,” and he urged William to help bring greater moral and spiritual order to the Red River region. William concluded from their talks that the people there were “sitting in darkness and the shadow of death, scattered like sheep on the mountains” (Page 55) with no shepherd to guide them. Still, the land was promising. It was fertile and open for settlement, and James hoped his brother would join him in making a life there.

His brother’s visit moved William. He felt a deep call to minister to those on the margins of American civilization. Their dislocation echoed his own. Though raised in a traditional Presbyterian household, William’s religious path had been unsettled. His mother had converted to the Baptist tradition, and for much of his life, he lived under its influence. Yet because he had not undergone a definitive personal conversion, he felt estranged from church life. Both Presbyterians and Baptists often discouraged church membership without such an experience, and so William remained spiritually adrift.

Despite a couple of miraculous encounters in early life, he remained unassured of his salvation. One example he recalls was almost losing an eye by a tree branch at 18, but miraculously regaining healing and sight following prayer. He even read many theological books to understand who God was, but was still never settled on who HE was. Was he destined for hell? Destined to never know the true experience of conversion?

It was the fervor of the Second Great Awakening that eventually gave him the conversion experience he had long lacked; with it came a strong call to preach. The experience reshaped his thinking. He began to question the rigid insistence on conversion as a precondition for church membership. Why, he wondered, should someone be excluded from Christian fellowship until they had a full, dramatic conversion?

This critique resonated with the character of the Red River region, where national and denominational boundaries were fluid alike. As evangelical Protestant traditions mingled on the expanding frontier, so too did the identities of those living there. Carrying a heart for the spiritually displaced, William set off to join his brother at the emerging crossroads of Red River country.

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Expanding The Nation

Since the purchase of the Louisiana Territory by the United States in 1803, many frontiersmen like James and William Stevenson came to settle in the vast land of present-day Arkansas and Louisiana along the Ouachita and Red River.

According to the borderland scholar, Sarah K. M. Rodríguez, United States leaders began to centralize the government even more following the War of 1812. No longer would they rely heavily on state militias. They would have a professional and active army moving forward. On the economic front, many were skeptical of the Federalists’ plans to centralize the economy with federally backed commerce and land:

Mexico’s comparatively weak fiscal structure, ample land, and apparently more thorough commitment to state soveriengty and local autonomy made it an appealing alternative to the disillusioned US agrarians who settled there in the wake of the 1819 economic crisis.

Many migrated who felt that this transition for the US was an overeach of government. By 1820, when Mexico was fighting to gain its independence from Spain, Mexico became a favorable place for those who sought a more autonomous local government. Those on the borderlands, like those in the Red River region, mirrored this attitude.

Before the frenzy of “Gone to Texas” took over, William’s journey was in 1813-14 as they followed the rivers south. Despite the rough nature, the people he met along the way were “industrious people… friendly and humane.” Though their soul sat in darkness, their spirits were open to the gospel. Rev. Stevenson was surprised, “I must say in truth, to the credit of the first settlers in Arkansas,” they are a “community of the most respectable of the old and new world.” (Page 60)

What made them respectable? According to Stevenson, it was their knowledge that Christianity was the only force strong enough to tame the wild:

Even those who did not unite with us in the Church had sound reason and good sense and courage to know and say that the gospel of Christ was the only means which God generally made use of to civilize, moralize, and christianize a country; therefor they received us and freely gave us such things as they had” (Page 60).

He recounted many who were converted on his trips as he made little “societies” along the way. One widow, whom he gave the label “shepherd of Israel,” became a female leader and inspiration among their group. She had prayed and longed for preachers to reach the land which their family had settled. According to Stevenson, he was the answer to her prayers.

Another notable conversion, according to Stevenson’s account, was that of a Choctaw tribesman. In his own language, he described that the “Great Spirit had come down into his heart and now loved him.” His testimony, along with the performance of “weeping and crying for mercy,” convinced Stevenson that he was converted. Of course, it is important to note that this conversion for Natives typically came with assimilation into a European culture. Christianity in the United States was the white man’s religion.

It was during these years that Stevenson preached at Pecan Point, specifically “the southwest side of Red River–a settlement of Americans in the bounds of the [Spanish] province of Texas” (Page 59). This was recorded as the first Protestant sermon in Texas. Of course, pinpointing exactly where Pecan Point was is hard to do as it was highly contested and scattered. Like many border in this time, it was not an exact location.

Following his adventure, William was motivated to relocate from his 240-acre farm in Missouri to Mound Prairie, Arkansas (modern day Hempstead County). This is where the Red river crosses into Arkansas territory. If we asked William himself, he might resort to his missionary experience as the ultimate factor for relocating his family. However, it could also be his political loss to Stephen F. Austin in 1815. The Austin family held a mining business in Missouri and was becoming a prominent name. Though his position in the Legislature would not last long. The Austin family became the first Anglo settlers in Mexican Texas, trying to find prosperity in a new country.

The Panic of 1819 was the first economic depression in the United States following the war. It also came with the Adams-Onis Treaty that made a more official border between the United States, Spain, and the Arkansas-Oklahoma territories. The U.S. became more vigilant of the border communities at Pecan Point and burned their homes and crops to make them evacuate. While some moved back into the Arkansas land, most made their way south, escaping the tyranny of the U.S. Army.

Nonetheless, the Methodist communities made here on the border of the United States and Spanish Texas carried with them their American and Protestant identity. Pierre Bourdieu’s idea of habitus suggests that our identities are deeply ingrained. When we enter into an unknown or new territory, we rely on our inherited identities to make sense of the world around us. So, these small frontier communities did exactly that.

To use Rodriguez’s words again:

Even before independence, Anglo-Ameican political tradition had presumed an association between small government, economic self-suffciency, and personal autonomy.

Their religious views paralleled this sentiment. They held onto their personal salvation. No king, no government, and no priest could do it for them. Only a change of heart, a turning away from sins, would change their actions. But once the government tried to do the work of God, it led to disaster and tyranny. The lessons from both the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the burning of their homes at Pecan Point made that clear to them. Entering into Mexican Texas, they hoped, would bring them the liberty they desired. But Texans know the story well… It wouldn’t be long before they were calling for Revolution once more.

“Religion is just telling others what is right and wrong. Read the books and see what they fight over.”

“Everyone is entitled to believe what they want to believe. Just stop forcing it onto other people.”

More interesting is the common response: “I’m ok with religion. I don’t like religion in politics.”

To be religious, in this view, means accepting certain ideas about God and living by what you think is right and wrong. If this is where religion ended, then most people would be religious scholars, and I’d be out of a job…

Whether it's debates about sexuality, money, substance use, or other religions in general, religion is framed primarily as a matter of internal conviction and external behavior. Or, put simply, what we believe and how we behave. Morals and beliefs are part of religion, but they don’t quite capture the full picture.

It is like mistaking a single shape for the whole painting. We miss what makes it so beautiful and sometimes impossible to understand.

What gets lost in this narrow view is the awe-filled, mysterious, and sometimes unsettling dimensions of religious life. Even more, we take for granted how religion creates order in a society: a lived structure that shapes how people see the world, what they value, and how they use these things to live. This order runs deeper than abstract beliefs and beyond ethical choices. It can sometimes become the center of life itself. Talk about messy politics…

So if religion isn’t just about right and wrong, how do we begin to see what more it includes?

Sociologists categorize religion with 4 B’s that are helpful for this! Belief, Behavior, Belonging, and Bonding

• Belief refers to the ideas and teachings a religion holds to be true.

• Behavior includes the rituals, ethics, and practices that followers perform.

• Belonging is the sense of identity and membership within a religious group.

• Bonding captures the relational ties that form through shared faith.

Religion Is Not Just About Getting It Right

Rather than “religion,” we might use the word “sacred” instead. Sociologists and religious thinkers Émile Durkheim, Mircea Eliade, and Rudolf Otto (to name a few) have argued that religion isn’t first and foremost about teaching ethics or laying out beliefs about God. It’s marking certain times, spaces, objects, and stories as set apart. These things are infused with a power or presence that’s not reducible to logic.

A friend of ours might say they like the teachings of Yoda and that it guides them through life: “Do or do not, there is no try.”

We might say it’s silly. How can they believe and follow the words of a fictional character? It’s just a story with fake characters and spaceships! Nevertheless, we learned something about our friend. Though it cannot be reduced to logic, these words are infused with power for them.

Also… be honest. Have you ever used these words to respond to someone facing a tough challenge ahead?

The sacred is what a community treats with reverence or fear. And crucially, it’s not always tied to what we’d simply call “moral.” In fact, it can be morally ambiguous at times. Holy wars, martyrdom, suicide, sacrifices, and relics are examples of sacred realities that defy modern categories of good and evil. They aren't moral lessons so much as they are symbolic boundaries. These events do not get their power from their ethical simplicity but from their symbolic gravity.

Take the concept of Baptism in Christianity as an example. The act is sacred not because it teaches something, but because it does something. We might say that the act of “baptism” is just an act to “symbolize” something else; there is nothing supernatural about it (though many Christians would disagree with you). Yet, it is this very behavior that constitutes their belonging in the community of believers. It is considered a “rite of passage.” It asks the question: Who is allowed to be a part of the Christian community?

Essentially, it gives legitimacy to the person who participates. Afterwards, they can say that they are part of the group. It is also why more orthodox-leaning churches do not allow those who identify as LGBTQ+ to be baptized. This performative action would display to everyone that homosexuality and transgenderism is acceptable, normal, or “good.”

Religion as a Sacred Order

To move beyond both belief and behavior, we need a broader lens. A sociological one, to be exact. Scholars like Robert Wuthnow have argued that religion is not just a system of rules or ideas, but a moral order: a shared framework that shapes how people live, what they value, and what they take for granted. This is also similar to the idea of a “Sacred Canopy” that I briefly mentioned in another post.

But wait! I thought we just said religion is not just about right and wrong?!

Yes! This moral order isn’t something you necessarily choose. It’s inherited. It’s social. And most of it operates below the surface. It tells you how to interpret time (sabbath vs. workweek), how to relate to authority (God, parents, elders), how to treat others (friends, strangers, spouses), and what kind of life counts as meaningful (money-making or service-oriented). It’s less about choosing to do good than about being formed by a whole ecosystem of purpose and meaning.

To bring in another scholar, Ann Swidler, describes culture as a “tool-kit”. There is usually never one right or wrong answer to a dilemma, but rather the culture at large gives you tools to deal with problems that arise. Religion is a MAJOR source for this tool-kit.

The American civil religion provides a sacred text (The Constitution), a sacred symbol (The Flag), and a sacred pledge to honor these things. We even have people in power who wear black robes to interpret this sacred Constitution with “robing ceremonies” to commemorate their role in society. A history lesson is mandated and provided to all school children to learn about the American story. It provides you with ethical ideas like freedom, equality, and democracy as virtues to interpret the world. That is why we can say that a country that does not allow women to vote is oppressive because of our shared sacred order. The American story of women’s suffrage is retold every year in classrooms. The American practice of allowing women to vote is viewed as normal. Anything else would be considered a sin or wrongdoing against the American values of equality, freedom, and democracy.

That’s why religion is so tightly tied to community. It's not just about believing and behaving in a good manner. It’s also about belonging and bonding. Religious life is built on shared practices, collective memory, and emotional attachments. Religion is lived through patterns that people absorb long before they consciously reflect on them and is often invisible to those inside it.

So when people say religion is about “being a good person,” they’re not entirely wrong. But they’re missing the point. Religion doesn’t just tell you to be good. It tells you what good actually is and how to recognize it. More interestingly, it also tells us who gets to decide what good is.

Religion is not just about being good or being right. It’s about belonging to a story, orienting yourself to the sacred, and participating (consciously or not) in a way of life.

A bright constellation

Trace the lines and name the stars

A picture in the dark

Tell the stories, hold close to heart

The sky opened wide

The stars compete, a chance to shine

A Galaxy Valentine

There are no lines, there is no guide

Don creativity

New pictures drawn, new stories told

A tight hand held close

We draw together what we know

Divine cosmology

Negotiate and meaning made

A sacred canopy

Tell the stories to guide the way

The idea for this poem is taken from Peter Berger’s “The Sacred Canopy,” published in 1967. It’s a piece that is somewhat influential in the way I think about religion, society, and how meaning is created in our lives. Berger suggests that human beings are not simply born into a world with meaning—it is constructed. Every society is an ongoing project of “world-building,” where people create meaning, systems, and structures that help them make sense of life. According to Berger, religion plays a unique role in this process—it offers what he calls a “sacred canopy”, a kind of symbolic shelter stretched over society that explains why the world is the way it is, and gives people a sense of order, morality, and purpose.

Religion isn’t just about comfort or community. It’s about legitimizing—making it seem like the way society is set up isn’t random but is grounded in something ultimate or sacred. Religion tells people not just how to live, but why the world is the way it is.

We might use this same image for an individual person, like I do in this poem!

Most kids grow up with an internalized canopy that guides them through life. Yet, more commonly nowadays, kids move away from home. They are exposed to new ideas - different ways of understanding the world. They begin to negotiate their worldview with others, they try on new ideas, new languages, and new practices.

For some, a sense of mourning might occur to honor the stories that once were. They cry out for the foundation they had been placed on, now lost in the vast space. On the other hand, a sense of cynicism might replace the comfort they felt because their picture was not eternal.

In either case, the breakdown of the canopy doesn’t just affect personal feelings—it shakes the very structure of social life for them. When the world no longer “makes sense,” people have to start asking: Is any of this real? Who made these rules? What is still worth believing?

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For Berger, that tension—between our need for meaning and our awareness that meaning is made—is at the heart of what it means to live in a modern world.

In the wake of that loss, I’ve responded in a few ways:

• Sometimes I try to rebuild a canopy—something more honest, more spacious, that still offers meaning.

• Other times, I resist any system that claims to have it all figured out. I’m wary of new absolutes.

• Often, I just carry the ache. I still long for the clarity I once had, even as I try to live with ambiguity.

For me, a big part of my reconstruction process happened inside of my marriage and having kids. We told the stories of our constellations, we laughed and cried with each traced line.

Each stanza in this poem reflects years of my journey, each line reflecting the step I took in it. In essence, it’s meant to be read slowly. I hope you enjoyed

Sacredness often refers to moments that are set apart, that remind us of the wholeness of creation. Death may seem like a breakdown of this wholeness but is rather set apart to reflect on how wholeness is being made new through it. When death is at the entrance of our lives, it brings us to pause. It is like hearing the knock on the door and being jolted into silence - A moment where we ask, “Do I open the door?”

Martin Laird, the author of Into the Silent Land, writes in his final chapter:

The doorway into the silent land is a wound… Silence lays bare this wound that seems to be with us for life and brings us face to face, '“eye to eye” with what it feels like to be nothing at all… this discovery often does not feel as much like a breakthrough as it feels like a breakdown.

In moments of deep wounds, we often find ourselves in an unexpected stillness—as if life, with all its noise and motion, suddenly stops. We’re left in what I like to call white spaces—those quiet edges of a page where the words stop, and we’re left to turn it.

This image of white space is not my own but was inspired by a poet, my spiritual advisor in my Master’s program, Dr. Darcy Hansen. She often writes on these spaces and you can read her reflections at her own Substack - every instance of stasis.

However, that silence can feel unsettling—like those moments after a conversation stops when you wonder, "What’s next? Should I say something?" As Laird describes, “Silence lays bare this wound.”

It can sometimes feel awkward. Maybe because it reminds us of absence, of things left unsaid. The spaces between words or lines on a page are like the spaces where our loved ones once stood. Their absence is not meaningless but helps to define who we are and who we are becoming.

Over the past few months, my wife and her family have gone through a series of losses. In a sacred space, I offered these words of reflection and comfort that I hope might bring the same to those experiencing similar feelings.

In the words of Psalm 23, we can find comfort in the words written by David—a poem on the Divine Shepherd who walks with us through all things:

These moments of stillness, these white spaces, are not emptiness, though it can feel like this at times. They are moments that give us room to feel, remember, and simply be. Exist. Remember our own existence.

Psalm 23 speaks to us from within that stillness. “He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.” These words aren’t just about peace; they’re about presence. They remind us that stillness can be a place of rest, a space where we are not alone but gently held by something greater than ourselves.

The Psalm goes on to say, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me;” In quiet spaces when the noise fades and we sit with our sorrow, God’s presence remains gentle, steady, and near.

As the author of Isaiah writes “By his wounds, we are healed.” Pain and suffering are not the end of the story; they lead us toward redemption and resurrection. Death is not the final word—it’s a step on the journey to a new beginning. For “Thy kingdom is an everlasting kingdom.”

So today, I urge you that we not rush to fill the silence. Let us honor the white space, knowing that it holds our memories, our love and pain, our joy and sorrow, and God’s comforting presence. In this stillness, may we find not emptiness, but rest—a reminder that even in silence, we are never truly alone.

CONTENT WARNING: This post contains stories of sensitive subjects such as self-harm.

I have gone back and forth on whether or not I should post this piece. It is a deep wound that has since healed. Yet, telling the story can be stigmatizing in some cases. But I am inspired by the spirit of Christ. The spirit that drives Jesus to show Thomas his wounds to confirm his identity.

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” (John 20:27 NIV)

It is the wounds of Jesus that confirm his identity - the wounds that confirm his resurrection. In this same spirit, I show you my wounds in hopes that you will believe. Believe in life. Believe in compassion. Believe in redemption.

Recently, I was teaching my 8th-grade students about the reform movements that swept across the United States during the Second Great Awakening. While abolition and women’s rights tend to stick out for most during this time, prison and mental illness reform was what I wanted to reflect on most. The reform of prisons and mental health facilities by Dorothea Dix highlights a lesser-discussed but important aspect of societal progress during this period. However, because of the limitation of instructional time and the sensitivity around these topics, I chose not to reflect on the major ideas shared here in my post.

Dorothea Dix, a 19th-century social reformer, was deeply moved by the plight of marginalized individuals after her experiences in 1841 when she volunteered to teach Sunday school at a women’s prison in East Cambridge, Massachusetts. During these times, societal attitudes toward mental illness often dismissed it as a moral or criminal failure, leading to those who struggled deeply with mental health issues being placed in the same prisons as those who had committed crimes.

There, she witnessed the deplorable conditions prisoners endured, particularly those suffering from mental illness. The incarcerated were often kept in dark, unheated cells, treated with cruelty, and provided little to no care for their mental health needs. This encounter moved Dix to advocate for more humane treatment of prisoners and the mentally ill, challenging societal norms that dismissed these populations as undeserving of compassion.

While teaching this subject, my students kept referring to the people within mental health facilities as "crazy." At first, I told them that was inappropriate. These same thoughts got people imprisoned rather than getting the support they needed. However, my students would continue to use the words in private conversations because, for them, it was "easier to remember."

Dorothea Dix's name, unsurprisingly, also became a source of sexual innuendos for many middle school students. Some of my colleagues began to play into this by attempting to help the kids remember her impact on society. They would connect her "crazy" last name to assisting "crazy" people. I felt ambivalent about this because I knew my students would instantly make the connection. However, the idea of teaching them this made me wince and caused my stomach to churn.

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So, when I reviewed the material, I used this tactic. It felt like walking a tightrope—I knew this method would stick with my students, but it also conflicted with my values as a teacher. My goal has always been to foster respect and understanding, not to reinforce negative stereotypes. Still, in that moment, I chose practicality over principle. However, I couldn't help but close my eyes and wince in front of them while I did it, reminding them that those who needed this support were not crazy, despite my use of this memory tool.

Although it was a brief moment in my life (5 days), my own experience within a behavioral health facility shattered every bias and assumption I held as a naive teen. I had been admitted for major depressive episodes that usually led to committing self-harm. Many residents were admitted for the same thing, but getting to know them widened my understanding of the diversity of people and their resilience.

A gay Hispanic 17-year-old who wore white muscle shirts, was bald, and spoke of his time affiliated with gangs because of his family’s involvement. As a young teenager, I assumed that he would display the typical macho male that I had experienced in my school. The low voice that would match his tough actions, heterosexual, and did not like those who showed any weakness or feminity. But he broke every boundary within my imagination… His voice was high-pitched and effeminate, and he loved standing with one hipped popped out and a hand on the hip. I was blown away - even starstruck! Most of all, he was funny as hell and made me laugh until I cried. He was there because the assumptions I made about him were the same ones that his community held. However, they were not assumptions, they were the standard. This caused a lot of bullying, anxiety, isolation, and suicidal ideations. I would have never guessed because when I met him he was as happy-go-lucky as can be and his demeanor showed no signs of depression. But before he came, he had attempted to take his own life.

Another individual I met while staying there was a boy who was a year or two younger than I was. He struggled with anger management issues and epilepsy. It was hard to remember a day that he did not have a seizure from becoming so flustered. I had never seen someone have a seizure up to this point and the first time was shocking. However, my feelings of shock turned to curiosity after a couple of days and I wondered what made him so angry inside. I remember the slightest obstacle would create an explosion of emotions and he would struggle for control. I had no medical knowledge (and still don’t about this) and eventually, my curiosity was transformed into compassion. The issue was bigger than struggling with emotions - it was bigger than his diagnosis. He eventually had to be relocated because some of the residents were not as empathetic towards the accommodations he needed to be with us. Even in a behavioral health facility where all of us could empathize with each other's struggles. I am certain he felt isolated even there.

I met many others while I was there and their stories are precious to me. The last memory I will share here is the time we were escorted to the cafeteria. Typically our food was brought to our floor of the hospital. However, today was different. At the cafeteria, hundreds of adults were flowing in and out wearing the same socks we were issued which designated them as residents. They all came from different backgrounds and health issues. At the time, I was frightened by the possibility of staying there until adulthood. Thoughts began flooding and I hardly remember what I had to eat - just the invasive thoughts.

I wanted to strive to get better as soon as possible. I missed my family. I missed my friends. I missed having a window to see outside that did not have bars on them. I missed being able to be barefooted or wear shoes. The cute and silly grip socks began to feel like labels.

Instead of looking away, Dorothea Dix dug deeper. Her religious belief - that every individual was inherently worthy - motivated her to take a stand. Her ability to push past societal barriers to demand compassion inspires me to consider what more we can do today to challenge the stigma around mental health.

She traveled across the country, observing the ways society failed its most vulnerable people. I can almost imagine her frustration when presenting her findings to state legislatures, hoping they’d do something about it. And yet, she didn’t stop. Because of her persistence, state psychiatric hospitals began to emerge—spaces designed to provide care instead of punishment. It makes me wonder how often she must have swallowed her anger to be heard or how many times she had to fight to convince others that these individuals weren’t "crazy," just in need of compassion. Her legacy wasn’t just about buildings or systems; it was about reframing how society saw and treated those who struggled with mental illness.

What’s surprising is that despite all of this… Rather than defending my principles, I still catered to my students' test scores. Maybe I was scared about being asked why I was making such a fuss, even by my co-workers (even though I knew they would understand).

I wish I could say I did the same as Dorothea Dix after my time in the behavioral health facility. I wish I could say that I returned home with more empathy, changed by my experiences, and avoided putting others in boxes. However, my beliefs would be challenged and I would suppress my experiences there to help fit a conservative idea of sexuality and mental illness. I would go on to actively participate in excluding those who struggled with sexuality and gender identity in the years following my release from the mental health facility. This would create an inner spiritual conflict within me for over 10 years. But that is another story for another day.

Religion is often considered an essential component of human identity, providing security and a sense of belonging. But as history illustrates, religious practices and beliefs are not static. They occasionally undergo significant changes in response to societal, cultural, and individual experiences.

By shifting our perspective of religion as static to one of continual change, we can better understand why it is a crucial key to understanding the world around us and our own experience with it.

Scholars like Dr. Robert Wuthnow and Dr. David Hempton have provided valuable insights into a multi-dimensional approach to religion and society. Let’s explore using examples to bring their relationship to life.

Religion as a Site of Tension and Transformation

Robert Wuthnow’s multilevel theory of religion helps us understand how religion operates at the intersection of societal force. Wuthnow argues that religion isn’t just a passive bystander to societal change; it is an active participant.

One of Wuthnow’s most compelling arguments is that religion plays a crucial role in drawing moral and symbolic boundaries. It establishes what is right and wrong, good and evil, often in response to societal pressures or demands. The symbolic part of it is played out through practice. For example, a child screaming during a movie or church service might be seen as lacking “good” manners and met with disapproving looks and a feeling of guilt.

An example of this is the debate over slavery in the American South. For much of the 19th century, pro-slavery theologians relied on biblical texts, particularly the writings of Paul, to justify the institution of slavery. Verses like “Slaves, obey your earthly masters” (Ephesians 6:5) were cited to affirm the moral and biblical legitimacy of slavery. On the stage of society, this was practiced, or performed, by enslavers invoking scripture during sermons, political speeches, and legal arguments to uphold slavery as a divinely ordained institution. Churches often segregated enslaved individuals into separate worship spaces or used their presence as evidence of obedience to God's will, creating a performative affirmation of the status quo.

For pro-slavery advocates, biblical texts provided clear moral boundaries for the institution. For abolitionists, those same texts—particularly passages emphasizing spiritual equality, like Galatians 3:28 (“There is neither slave nor free, for you are all one in Christ Jesus”)—were interpreted as a mandate for liberation. This was then practiced through public abolitionist rallies, sermons that used the bible to advocate for human dignity, and the organization of networks like the Underground Railroad. It was religious convictions about equality that helped to direct resistance to slavery.

These competing interpretations made religious communities a battleground where religious commitments and ethical lines were contested and redrawn. Religion helps define moral boundaries—what we consider good and evil—and often becomes a site of a power struggle between competing values in society.

This dynamic makes religion a site of both tension with society and the transformation of society. You might experience this through major value shifts such as changing views on LGBTQ+ that might cause more/less tension with your local community. It could also be as simple as views on immigration, homelessness, medical concerns, education, and other societal events that have individual impacts.

As societal attitudes shifted—due to abolitionist movements, economic changes, and ultimately the Civil War—these interpretations began to evolve. Post-Civil War, Southern churches reinterpreted Paul’s writings, moving away from literal endorsements of slavery to emphasizing themes of spiritual freedom and reconciliation. The separation of “spiritual” freedom and “physical” freedom would become a theological debate alongside many Southerners’ opposition to Reconstruction and integrating African-Americans fully into society.

The Symbiosis of Religion and Society

David Hempton’s “network, node, and nuclei” model provides another way to understand religious change and the importance of connection. Hempton emphasizes the relational and institutional dynamics of religion, highlighting how “networks” (connections between groups), “nodes” (influential churches or leaders), and “nuclei” (core beliefs and values) interact to drive transformation.

Take the rise of contemporary Christian music (CCM) in evangelical churches as an example. Initially, rock music was dismissed as incompatible with Christian values. However, networks of young believers and artists began to reimagine rock music as a means of worship. Influential nodes such as megachurches and record labels, adopted and promoted this new form of expression. The core nuclei of evangelicalism—spreading the gospel and fostering a personal “born-again” faith—remained intact, allowing CCM to thrive. Over time, what was once considered “worldly” became a defining feature of modern evangelical worship while

Dr. Leah Payne’s God Gave Rock and Roll To You helps to develop this point, revealing how CCM embued conservative values alongside evolving their musical palette. As Payne writes about her experience within the CCM world and her change in perspective:

"I came to see CCM concerts as sites where power is created and negotiated. At CCM performances, entertainers exerted influence over attendees by soliciting public conversations, stoking political action, and seeking donations for social causes… Women who could and would be ‘womanly’ according to straight, white middle-class evangelical ideals were adored. Men who could and would be ‘manly’ according to straight white middle-class evangelical norms were admired. Those who could not—or would not—adhere to such standards were often marginalized.”

In later chapters, she goes on to make this connection more explicit. Michael W. Smith, a CCM musical giant, released his Worship album on the tragic day of September 11, 2001. At the request of his friend, President George W. Bush, Michael W. Smith created the song “There She Stands” as a tribute to the fateful day. This song played as firefighters raised a flag over the World Trade Center. It also ignited a spiritual vision for many in the nation who began to see Islam as the nation’s new enemy. The War on Terror would be a righteous war against evil.

Later in 2004, Smith was invited to the Republican National Convention to perform “There She Stands” where he declared his praise for the president. During the performance, American flags stood “as a symbol of hope ‘when evil calls itself a martyr.’”

Payne’s historical display reveals how CCM reverberated norms within white evangelical culture, capturing a glimpse of the melody that religion and society play together. This example mirrors Hempton’s symbiotic model: societal changes opened the door for rock music to enter the church, while the church’s adoption of CCM shaped perceptions of both worship and evangelical identity on a national scale.

Conclusion

Religious change is not a mystery—societal or individual. It is a natural process rooted in the relationship between religion and society. It often occurs at the intersection of societal shifts and personal experiences. It is performed in private and public affairs. From the interpretation of race in the United States to the influence of contemporary Christian music and the ongoing dialogue around LGBTQ+ inclusion, these examples remind us that religion is both a mirror and a molder of the world around us.

As society changes, so does religion—reshaping itself to remain relevant, resonant, and meaningful for those seeking it.

Each concept reflects a progression in the relationship between religion and society, moving from minimal coexistence (tolerance) to legal equality (freedom) to a proactive celebration of diversity (pluralism).

Below is an excerpt from my article:

“On September 13th, Rev. Dr. Jonathan Davis, a Texan Christian pastor, seminary professor, and Director of Development of the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty, advocated against implementing the Bible in the Texas Curriculum. The plan also has an incentive for schools to adopt by giving each school $60 per student if the district accepts the new material. He was then asked if he “believed the Bible to be 100% historically accurate.” When trying to explain the nuance of that question, they demanded a straightforward “yes or no.”

Arriving Monday, November 19th, Davis found a group gathered at the State Board of Education meeting waving a Christian flag while singing and praying. They prayed that the “enemy” would not prevail in public schools. Davis understood the enemy to be those like him who advocated against the Bible in schools. He spoke to the board again on Tuesday, November 19th, urging the State Board of Education to reconsider their decision: “The proposed lessons privilege the Christian faith above all others … America is not now, nor have we ever been a Christian nation, but if these lessons are taught in public schools students will no doubt be left with the impression that other religions are merely tolerated in our society.”

His testimony pinpoints the key issue revolving around the idea of religious freedom. Does it support religious pluralism and other religious voices in our history, or will it prioritize a Christian narrative?

The state of Texas made its final decision on November 20th with a narrow 8-7 vote. The new biblically based materials will be accepted and incentivized in public schools.”

Read the full article here!

The horror novel follows a reconstructed family who moves into a renovated church in the countryside with a cemetery for a neighbor. Seven-year-old Heather becomes fascinated with the grave of Helen Elizabeth Harper (H.E.H.), a girl who died in a fire 100 years earlier. Heather’s behavior becomes strange: more isolated, irritable, and claiming to communicate with Helen's ghost. As the relationship between Heather and Helen (the ghost) begins to grow, Heather is lured to the pond to be drowned.

Her stepsister (Molly) saves her at the last moment and uncovers the tragic history of Helen Harper. Molly discovered that Helen intentionally set fire to her own house 100 years ago resulting in her entire family’s death. As a result, she is bound to this world causing those to encounter her to take revenge as she once did. This crucial detail shines a light on Heather’s story as her mother was killed in a house fire at the age of three. It also hints at a much deeper detail that Helen (the ghost) may be getting Heather to drown as a punishment for her sins.

What is striking is that Heather’s trauma and grief caused her to feel guilt for her mother’s death, even though she was not responsible for it. It’s also clear in the story that because of this tragedy, she has become possessive of her father which causes bad relationships between the siblings. Feeling alone at her new home, her new friend just happens to be the spirit of a girl caught in tense family dynamics 100 years ago. To break free from the ghost’s hold on her, Heather must process her grief and guilt and of course - burn the bones.

It’s easy to dismiss children’s ghost stories and count them as fanatical. However, the ability to see supernatural phenomena or even communicate with the dead plays a distinct part in American history.

When it came to the Salem Witch Trials of 1692, it was typically women who experienced being tormented at night by spirits. Some women experienced convulsions, possessions, or nightmares, while others were forced to sign a book called “The Book of the Devil” in blood. Those accused of witchcraft were typically outliers and deviants of society. It is suspected that these accusations became a way for women in society to have control over their experiences by expressing their grievances during a period of social/political upheaval. The main accuser was a 12-year-old girl named Ann Putnam Jr. who would go on to accuse 18 out of the 20 witches that were eventually executed. Her friend Mercy Lewis (17), who worked for Ann’s father Thomas Putnam, would also play a crucial role in the accusations as well.

Putnam and Lewis were joined by other young ladies to accuse Bridget Bishop. In earlier years, Bishop and her husband were gagged in the public marketplace for name-calling on the Sabbath. They were also whipped for fighting the year after. However, it was the years of marriage with Thomas Oliver that left her face scarred from the constant fighting. If this did not contribute to her being a “deviant and outcast” of society, then it would be her first accusation of being a witch in 1680. This was most likely because of her husband’s accusation of being a “bad wife…” saying, “the devil had come bodily to her… and she sat up all night with the devil.” Though, before he could explain this comment, he died.

During her trial of 1692, Bishop had grown to be in her late 50s or early 60s and claimed her innocence again of being a witch. She stated that she had never seen Putnam or the other girls before. Yet, the accuser’s convulsions and fits of terror rattled the court. Every time Bishop moved, they would match her movements or fall into fits. Some of the quotes from the court documents read… “She shake her head & the afflicted were tortured… Why you seem to act Witchcraft before us, by the motion of your body, which [hasin] seems to have influence fluence upon the afflicted… Then she turned up her eyes, & [they] the eyes of the afflicted were turned up” Bridget Bishop was the first to be executed on June 10, 1692.

Communicating with ghosts erupted again in the 19th century when the spiritualist movement took over the American imagination. The most famous practitioners of the time were the Fox sisters in New York. It was the eerie performances of these sisters that attracted thousands of spectators from across the region.

In March of 1848, Margaretta “Maggie” Fox (14) and Kate her 11-year-old sister, began to experience a strange noise in their bedroom. Every night around bedtime, they claimed to hear a series of knocks and scrapes on the walls and furniture. In demonstrating to their neighbors, their mother commanded the spirit to “count to five… fifteen… thirty.” After each number, the spirit would respond obediently and knock on the floor five, fifteen, and then thirty times. Later that year, the family abandoned the house and both Fox sisters went to live with their older sister Leah in Rochester, New York.

Curiously, this is also the region that gave birth to Mormonism, Millerites, and Seventh-Day Adventists. One underlying theme behind most of these interpretations of Christianity is the rejection of the Calvinistic doctrine of predestination. This meant that many Americans were coming to believe that they had a choice in their salvation, God did not decide for them. The proof of spirits became evidence of such beliefs and communication with the dead offered solace for families and motivation for social reform.

Many people took intrigue to the Fox sister’s story by investigating their homes finding strands of hair and bones to flesh out the story. Issac Post, an abolitionist and reformer at the time, invited them to see if the girls could communicate with spirits there as well. He was taken aback when he heard the distinct thumping on the floor, the same sounds found in the girl’s home. Moreover, He had recently lost a daughter of his own and took to Leah’s words when communicating with her. All three sisters were now proven mediums in the area.

Their performance caught the attention of the famous Andrew Jackson Davis who helped spur their professional tour across the states to evangelize. They performed these miracles on stage in front of thousands in New York, St. Louis, Cleveland, and Washington D.C. Leah stayed in New York performing seances while Kate married and continued performing.

However, things would come to a screeching halt for Maggie. She vowed to her husband that she would stop performing and give up her medium powers once and for all. She attended school at his request but he died suddenly in 1857, leaving her in mourning and a loss of identity. In his memory, she converted to Catholicism and left her spiritualist memories behind. However, in response, she began to drink heavily which her sisters berated her publicly for.

Maybe it was because her sisters humiliated her or for her own husband’s memories, but Maggie exposed her sisters in 1888. In an interview with New York World, she recreated the strange sounds using an apple and string. The other sounds were created with her toes and joints which made a loud rap sound. Other spiritualists at the time, hoping to save their own performances, claimed that Maggie was possessed by other unseen spirits that sought to diminish the work of God. Others attributed her “lies” to the $1500 payment she received for exposing them. Maggie tried to retract her statement a year later, but the damage had been done. A sudden disenchantment with spiritualism was the result.

Where does that leave us with Heather and Helen then? Is Heather’s ghost real or a trick of the mind? Maybe this question isn’t too serious because it’s a children’s story. But… It is the question that reveals the real horror underneath.

If we only take the things that can be explained about Heather’s experience with Helen’s ghost, then Heather’s shame and guilt are the culprits of her experiences. It is not until living in the renovated church that Heather’s imagination is taken captive by ghosts. Her strained relationship with her siblings and the tension of having a new family sets the stage for imaginary friends. Finally, she feels abandoned by her dad by marrying this new family and guilt about the fire in her home that killed her mom. Just as Helen wanted to enact revenge on those who hurt and abused her in her former life, Heather seeks revenge in another form - drowning herself in the pond. What other form of control does a 7-year-old girl have except what she decides to do with her own life? She would be the judge of her salvation.

But then again, it’s just a story. Sometimes it is not the ghost that is scary, but what had created it in the first place. Perhaps this is why during the movie, Heather is older and also at fault for her mother’s death. Giving Heather something to be guilty about helps to quiet the true horror of the ghost’s existence.

Whatever the case, this book's intersection of history, religious experience, and cultural phenomena enveloped me in a different world when I was a kid. It now plays at the core of what I hope for this space to be - simple reflections on American religious history and how it still impacts us today. Some posts may deal with more historical or religious work while others may be reflections on culture or my own experiences. Whatever this space becomes, it is a sacred one. A space for the stories that have shaped me and the ones that continue to do so.